


He Was a Friend of Mine

by mwildsides



Category: Captain America
Genre: M/M, sort of western AU?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 22:36:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwildsides/pseuds/mwildsides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There once again, as evening fell<br/>And stars were peering overhead,<br/>Two lovers met to bid farewell:<br/>The western sun gleamed faint and red<br/>Lost in a drift of purple cloud<br/>That wrapped him like a funeral shroud.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Lewis Carroll- The Three Sunsets</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Was a Friend of Mine

**Author's Note:**

> title from the Bob Dylan/Willie Nelson whatever song. I'll try to keep this short; this is unbeta'd, but I've been working on it for for freakin ever, and I'm reading over it and I'm pretty satisfied, save for the end which. eh. so feel free to tell me how you like that because I'm not 100% sure I do. ALSO; would recommend listening to the soundtrack to The Assassination of Jesse James By the coward flbalhalbalh you know. or Never Let Me Go.

Seeing Bucky behind bars always gave Steve a certain sense of elation, however few and far between it happened. 

It meant he was under Steve’s thumb, and he’d be staying for at least a night. There, he wasn’t the Winter Soldier, he wasn’t Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, he was the Bucky Steve had known his whole life through, quite literally, thick and thin. 

The sun was low in the grey morning sky when Steve rode into the town, streets muddy from last night’s snow and this morning’s traffic. His horse’s white-socked feet were caked in it as they trotted down the main street, cool air tossing it’s mane back from it’s neck. Not many in town dared venture out today if they could manage it, for cart wheels would be no doubt have been swallowed up by the impossible amount of mud. Only a brave few who had been out in the early morning were there, a few shop keeps, and the doctor who had been called from his home just as the sun had risen, much like Steve. 

A dapple grey mare was tied up outside the county jail, saddle bags being emptied into a covered cart by a few men Steve recognized as he drew closer. 

“Morning Bruce,” Steve smiled as his horse sidled up next to the grey mare. The black stallion, Loki, reared his head and nipped at her neck with a little whinny, and the mare tossed her head to stave him off, “See you boys were busy earlier. Why didn’t anyone come wake _me_?” Steve said, pulling Loki’s reigns gently to draw his attention away from the mare. The horse merely stamped his hooves impatiently in the mud. 

“Fury had it handled pretty well, said you’d want some sleep.” Bruce smiled a little up at Steve from beside the grey mare, shielding his eyes from the cloud-bright sun. Meanwhile the blond was swinging down from his saddle, boots squelching in the mud. He tied Loki to the same post as the mare, and patted his neck affectionately before he walked around the tie-post. 

“Even for this?” Steve asked, quite serious now. How he’d not been woken when a _robbery_ was in progress escaped him. He was the sheriff, after all. Bruce shrugged, and unbuckled the mare’s saddle. It was one Steve was too familiar with, smooth black crafted leather with white embroidered seams. The dull sound of boots on the jail’s portico made Steve turn back. 

“Morning Steve,” Tony Stark grinned, as he watched the sheriff step up to the landing where he himself stood, “Good to see you again, huh?” He removed his black hat and outstretched tanned, worn hand to Steve. 

“Sure,” The blond smiled graciously, “Sounds like you and your people had a tough morning, I apologize I wasn’t there. No one told me you were being held up.” Mr. Stark, weapons-engineer-turned-train-engineer was a good few inches shorter than Steve, but was about five years older. A handsome, smart man who knew his worth, which was a few times more than what Steve would ever make in salary for the rest of his life. Tony Stark had been a decent friend to him. Haughty and pompous as he was, Steve came to like him, though they didn’t have very much in common. 

“Not at all, your guys got it back, as you can see,” He motioned to the cart, “Got a few of ‘em, shot one or two. Plus we weren’t carrying anything all _that_ important, some spare parts.” Stark winked at Steve because they certainly _were_ carrying items of value, but no one was really supposed to know that. 

“Yeah well I’ll still have to have a word with all of ‘em. If you’ll excuse me, Tony.” Steve clapped the dark haired man on the shoulder, and side-stepped around him to get to the door. 

Taking a deep breath, the sheriff opened the door with a miserable creak, only to hear the conversation in the room come to a murmured halt. His eyes scanned the cells along the black wall, all black-barred and mostly empty, save for one on the end. A glance to his left and Steve saw his less-than-responsible partners huddled in a group next to the mayor, who looked pretty satisfied with himself. 

“Sheriff Rogers, we missed you this morning.” Nicholas Fury stepped forward, extending a hand to Steve even though the smile on his face was less than amicable. Steve pursed his lips, and nodded, slapping on a forced smile as he shook the other man’s hand. 

“Well no one bothered to tell me the Winter Soldier was in town.” He stepped past Fury as well, in favor of making his way to the cells. His heart was galloping away in his chest with excitement, though he could show none of his colleagues as much. It had been a pleasant thing to wake up to, the news that Bucky had been snatched up after some sort of raid on Tony Stark’s carriages. 

“It was sort of an emergency, Sheriff, we couldn’t afford to send a man five miles the other way to find ya.” Steve registered that voice as Clint’s, a small, scrappy blond, and one of the few men Steve liked well in this town. 

“Hm. Well next time afford to. You could’ve caught more with me. Who was he with?” The sheriff said, stalking passed Clint, a young man named Peter, and a man called Sam. His eyes and mind were focused elsewhere, ahead at the boot-soles he could see through the bars of the last prison-cell. 

“The usual, Karpov, Natasha. Sam managed to get a shot off on Lukin, but I’m not certain he’s dead or if his pals came back for him. Horse is gone with the rest of them, I suspect.” Clint said, and Steve nodded silently as he stepped in front of Bucky’s cell. 

“And he’s the only one you could haul in,” Steve muttered, gazing down at the man through the bars as his head tipped up. Bucky was stretched out on the wooden bench, the only thing in the cell, ankles crossed and shoulders resting against the cement wall, “Now how’d you manage that?” He asked, eyes still fixed on his friend, who grinned at him. 

“Dunno. Guess he just ain’t as fast as he used to be.” Sam piped up. He was a quiet man, and Steve liked him too. He’d always been mighty pleasant to Steve when the blond first arrived. 

“You loosing your touch, James?” Steve asked, voice severe even though he didn’t mean any of it. Bucky knew as much, too, for he just grinned some more, wide and sharp like a fox. 

“I don’t know sheriff,” He replied flippantly as he swung his legs off the bench and stood up, “Why don’t you come on in here and find out?” Being his usual smug self, Bucky waltzed right up to the bars to watch Steve try and fight off a smile. If they had been alone, both knew that Steve would have thrown open the door to the cell and tackled Bucky with an overbearing embrace. He would later, no doubt. 

“Sit yourself back down, James, it’s gonna be a long night for you.” Not one he’d spend in jail, but no one else knew as much. Steve’s gaze lingered on Bucky for a moment, taking in his ragged appearance; no doubt he hadn’t slept, eaten, or bathed in days, his face was streaked with dirt and what looked like blood, and his shirt was torn over his left shoulder. The tear sagged a little, and any light that leaked into the room caught the silvery material of Bucky’s arm under it. 

In a quiet room, one could hear it hiss, and listen to the gears turn. 

“Well, Clint, I’ll trust you on watch till noon, Sam after that till five when I get back,” Steve asserted as he turned away from the cell bars, and looked at the three men, “Peter, you come with me and Bruce to look for Lukin. Is there anything of Stark’s we missed?” Steve turns to Fury, the only man Tony would have told if anything _too important_ was missing. Nick waved the sheriff over, to speak low and close. 

“Something new he was working on--can’t remember what in God’s name he called it....an...an arc...something....” He glared, puzzled, at the floor, and then nodded to the door, “You ask him what it is, I can’t remember for the life of me.” Fury finished, and Steve nodded in understanding. 

Looking back to Peter, the sheriff motioned for the door and the young man nodded. 

“Oh, sheriff, if you do find Lukin, you kill him, hear me?” Fury pointed at him, face cold and stoic as it ever was, “The boys heard me too now, I don’t want any excuses if you come trottin’ back into town with that bastard in handcuffs.” Steve clenched his jaw, staving off any arguments on how _illegal_ and no doubt morally unsound that was, but instead just gave an ambiguous nod before pushing out the door. 

“Bruce, you and Peter are gonna take me up to where you guys found James and his lot this morning, we’re going back for Lukin.” Steve said to Bruce, who was still tending to Tony’s cart of valuables. He nodded though, staying his actions, and immediately heading for the stables. Peter followed, and Steve tromped down to speak with Tony about his missing item. 

Once Stark had given the sheriff a description, the blond waded through the good few inches of mud on the ground, to stand next to the grey mare. As far as he knew, and for as long as he’d known Bucky to have this horse, she never was given a name. Everyone simply called her the Grey Mare. Maybe Bucky had given her a name, but Steve had never heard it. Loki always seemed to recognize her, tossing his head and tramping in the dirt, nickering as if he was randy for her. She’d huff indifferently in return and nip at his neck, but never much else. When in the wide-open field Steve has fenced in on his property, they ran and played and whinnied like fast friends. 

The mare was about ten years old now, a bit older than Loki, for Steve had purchased him at auction not long after he had gone West six years ago. From what Steve saw, Bucky took good care of her, and vice versa--

“Alright Rogers, lets go then, we gotta head up the ridge.” Bruce said gruffly as he and Peter rode up into the street in front of the jail. Steve nodded and untied Loki, after he’d gave the mare a pat on the nose. The black horse whinnied, sad to be leaving his friend for a time, when Steve mounted. 

“We’ll be back, relax Loki.” Leaning forward, the blond man patted his horse’s neck, and tugged the reigns to the left. 

 

The road that led up to the ridge was fringed by aspen trees, now bare in their winter sleep. From there  those white-barked trees mingled with pine up onto the slope of the mountain, where the thick pine trees took over, painting the mountain side green year-round. In the spring, though, the aspen turned, and gave the landscape bright splashes of gold, like waves rolling in from the valley and breaking at the foot of the mountains. 

As the road rose higher up out of the rim of the valley, they slowed their horses to a trot, each of them looking about for footprints that seemed out of place. A silence had settled over them all as they made their way up toward the ridge, but, as he often did, Peter spoke up after some time. 

“Sheriff, can I ask you a question?” He said, frowning and looking over at Steve inquisitively. 

“Shoot.” The blond said simply, glancing over his shoulder at Peter. 

“I’ve heard that you served in the war with the Winter Soldier,” Peter continued. If Steve had a nickel for every time someone in the town had asked him that in the last five and a half years, he’d be as rich a man as Tony Stark, “That true?” 

Steve sighed, glancing to his right, out at the landscape they were slowly rising above. 

“No.” 

And that was the truth. Or, the short answer, at very least. 

The long answer, however is...just that. Longer. Infinitely more complicated than what Peter had asked. 

Steve had known Bucky for just about as long as he’d been alive, give or take the few years between when he’d been born, and when his mama got sick. They were living in New York at the time in a tiny, two-room cottage in the countryside near the city; Steve was six at the time, too young to be able to work the fields, to earn any sort of money. His mother tried her best, but with the cough that rattled in her lungs, she couldn’t do much. 

One afternoon when Steve had been chasing birds out in the fields, and whipping the tall grass with a switch cut from a cherry tree, he met Bucky. 

_“James Buchanan Barnes,”_ He’d said with an official tone that captured Steve’s attention right away. They shook hands like men, even though Bucky was only eight, and they were still so young. Steve came to find out that Bucky--he insisted on being called Bucky--lived down the road a ways, with his dad who liked to knock him around, and he had no mom just like Steve didn’t have a father. 

They passed days in the fields, chasing one another, or sometimes Mrs. Rogers would put them to work, pulling weeds in front of the house and cleaning out the fireplace. They reveled in having such _important_ things to do. Not long later Steve’s mother came home with a few hens, and put them in Steve and Bucky’s charge. The chickens made for something to chase, or something to gawk at after Mrs. Rogers cut the head off one. Steve and Bucky had clung to one another, watching its body flail for a few seconds, blood spilling over the dirt in the back yard. 

When Steve was twelve and Bucky thirteen, Steve’s mother died. She’d been wetting at least a half-dozen handkerchiefs with blood for about six months steadily, until finally she was confined to her bed, pale and drawn. Bucky was around a lot in those days, helping where he could. He said his father didn’t care what happened to him, and this was more like his home anyway. That much was true at least; Steve and Bucky had become brothers. Finally when consumption took Mrs. Rogers, the two boys didn’t know what to do. 

_“We can run away,”_ Bucky had whispered, as Steve cried, _“Go into the city like real boys. I’ll take you to the circus, waddaya say Stevie?”_

Steve had nodded, because he trusted Bucky, trusted him with his life. They packed up what little provisions were left in Steve’s house--a hard half of bread, some preserves sealed with wax, a few carrots Bucky had pulled from the Rogers’ dry garden. From there they set off, Steve carrying a roll of blankets in a pack, and Bucky with the food. They slept cold nights in fields, who ever they belonged to, curled together under blankets. Bucky would pull Steve against him, chest to the younger boy’s back when they laid down for the night. 

_“I’ll take care of you, Steve, I promise.”_ He’d whisper, when he thought Steve was asleep. 

For as long as he could, Bucky kept that promise. 

One morning, a farmer found them, and hauled them to the orphanage in the nearest city. Bucky had kicked and screamed his way to the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and Steve had to be the one to reassure him then. Although it did little to placate his friend; Bucky was still wild with anger for the first year they were there, and Steve supposed it never really went away. He’d misbehave, shout at the nuns and more often than not, he’d get caned so hard he’d bleed. He insisted it was nothing he hadn’t had before, but still Steve worried for him. 

As they grew into teenagers, Bucky filled out like the rest of the boys, where Steve stayed small--tiny even--and was often overlooked when husbands came with their wives to the orphanage. He was considered a runt by all, with his wheezing lungs and off-beat heart, except to Bucky. Most winters Steve would fall ill, and instead of going to play with the other boys, Bucky stayed behind to read to his friend. All they had, of course, was the Bible, but neither of them really took to it, no matter how many verses they were forced to write, or how many prayers they had memorized. 

Bucky took care of Steve, took care of the older boys who pushed him around, and calmed him when Steve began to choke on his breaths. Those “attacks” were terrifying for both boys, for they had no idea what was happening, and most times both would end up with tears streaked down their cheeks. When they were older, Bucky wasn’t so afraid. He’d learned well how to pull Steve to his chest and make him breathe, take slow gulps of air instead of gasping for it like a fish out of water. Steve knew he’d be dead without Bucky. 

When Steve was fifteen, the other boys their age hassled him mercilessly. They’d asked what had gone wrong when he was born, what was wrong with his mother. Was his father his _uncle too? Is that what’s wrong with you?_ They’d beat him next, when he wouldn’t cry or run away. He’d never fought before that, but knew instantly he had to fight back. It didn’t make too much of a difference; he’d usually end up black and blue or worse if Bucky didn’t step in, but he still never ran away from a fight. 

The war broke out that year, and Bucky would talk to Steve about the two of them marching off to war against the Rebels. Steve could picture the idea and was taken with it, later dreaming of it often. He knew he was much too thin and sickly to do much good, but still dreamed. Bucky on the other hand, well he’d be old enough to enlist soon, and there was no doubt in Steve’s mind he would leave this place if given the chance. However that _wasn’t_ how it happened. 

During the summer of 1862 they ran away from the orphanage, seeking out the nearest encampment of soldiers and demanded they enlist. Bucky lied, told the clerk that he was nineteen, Steve was eighteen, and that they were brothers not to be separated. The man looked at them wearily, but signed off on a few papers, and gave them instructions on where to go. It was no place for a boy of eighteen, let alone sixteen, as Steve was at the time. Rifles were thrust into their hands, packs tossed on their backs, and sent off to the South. 

Steve had never been farther from home than the orphanage, so nearly everything was new, and sometimes beautiful. For a while, they simply marched, stopping to camp now and then to await orders. These times Steve would walk to the outskirts of camp, find a decent place to sit, and drew. He took the opportunities for what they were--precious--for he knew that in the coming months he would get nothing of the sort. It scared him, but Bucky was always there to grin and wink, and tell him it would be just peachy in the end. 

Their first battle was in winter, and was every bit as terrifying as Steve had expected it to be. Stationed at the top of the hill, their battalion had the upper hand, and for most of the day and night, the Rebels were out of range of their guns. A waiting game, mostly, but it hardened both Steve and Bucky to the sight of a dead man, to the sound of gun fire, and the general chaos of war. 

From there it worsened, the further they went on. Steve learned to shoot his rifle, to be quick in loading it, and Bucky did too, only his aim was deadly. Their higher-ups valued it, and made to put Bucky in a special squadron of men. He refused, at least until he was assured his “brother” could come with him. Figuring Steve would most likely die quick, if not from the Rebels’ guns, then from any number of diseases that plagued their camps, they let him go along. Even Steve was surprised he wasn’t sick, but didn’t take any second of his time for granted. 

Though he wasn’t a very good shot, Steve tried. Hand to hand he wasn’t bad, because his size made him quick, although he couldn’t run for very long. Most times he ended up running for the trees, Bucky hot on his feels even though he should have been fighting. No one noticed anyhow, so they were allowed to go on that way. Neither had really been ready for battle when they had enlisted, no matter what they told themselves in the beginning. 

When camped out, they shared a tent, and often times a bedroll. In the winters it was better for heat, and the rest of the time it was merely comforting. However at their age, things were beginning to shift. More than their bodies were changing, their minds were, and both could feel it. Their childhood was quickly left behind and they were maturing, realizing just how important they were to one another. To Steve, Bucky didn’t feel much like a brother anymore, it was that different. They lay close in their tent at night, under their threadbare wool blanket in the light of the lamp, and Bucky would smile at him. Sometimes Steve would take out his sketchbook and draw a portrait of his friend. 

_“Where’d you get so good at that?”_ Bucky would ask, leaning over Steve’s shoulder, breath hot against the smaller boy’s cheek. Steve shrugged, staring at the graphite picture of Bucky. 

Steve drew everything, when he had the time. A cavalry horse named Aristotle, a great big beast with long white hair and a brown, scarred coat. The tents, a plume of smoke rising from a far off enemy encampment, the blue mountains of North Carolina. The field after battle, a wounded man left in a chair, a  horse standing over it’s felled master. 

For two years they fought side by side, protecting one another as they could, and growing into men far too early. Their comrades said this was no place to grow up, that it would scar them in more ways than one, and too early Steve understood that. He had his fair share of near misses, scars from a stray bullet, one he had actually taken, and survived. Bucky was tougher than he was, sturdier. His right ear had been nicked by a bullet, and it was the closest he’d come to dying yet. He’d been shot in the calf, again, a near miss of the bone that would have put him up for months. It seemed luck was on their side. 

However in the winter of 1864, it ran out. Their small squadron had been ordered a reconnaissance mission in Tennessee, simply to ascertain numbers of the Rebel troop they heard were camped out just through a copse of trees, and down a gentle slope. If they were indeed there, the Union had the high ground yet again, and would attack immediately. So their troupe of commandos were sent out through the forest, just a handful of them and their rifles. 

The Rebels were waiting for them at the edge of the wood, just under the lip of the hill. In a cacophony of screams and gun fire, the Union soldiers, however few of them there may be, nearly turned on their heels and ran back into the forest. Bullets chased them through the, as did some of the Federals, and in the scatter Steve lost sight of Bucky. He ran, hard as he could and his lungs burned with it in the beginnings of an attack. But he knew that if he stopped be’d be just as dead as he would be when he was safe, throat tight and no air in his lungs. So he kept running, feet battering over the ground, heart hammering and the pop of guns loud in his ears. 

Steve never stopped running until he reached the tent of one Colonel Chester Phillips, wheezing so hard he could barely speak. Col. Phillips eventually got it, and roused a fair amount of soldiers to go back and push the Rebs back far enough to rescue the wounded. When Phillips tromped out of his tent, Steve sagged to his knees, clutching at his uniform buttons like they were choking the air out of him. Leaning his arm on the Colonel’s folding chair, Steve breathed deep through his nose, like Bucky had taught him, thought of Bucky’s hand on his chest, his warmth and Steve’s back, breath steady in his ear. He thought of Bucky’s scent, and the way his voice sounded when he told Steve be be calm. 

When he could breathe, Steve stumbled out into the camp, eyes canvasing every tent fold and empty patch of grass for Bucky. As night fell he made his way to the tent for the wounded, hoping to find his friend no worse for wear. Maybe a close nick, a scratch here or there. Yet among the dead, dying, and hurt, Steve didn’t see Bucky’s face. 

He went to sleep that night alone, and would for the next eight years. 

The war ended a year later, and Steve went back to New York for a time. All the while he mourned Bucky’s death, because it was the only likely possibility. A body was never found, and if he was taken hostage, the Rebels would have killed him after long, or maybe turned him loose in the wild country with nothing, and he died from starvation or sickness. Long nights Steve spent contemplating the fate of his oldest, dearest, and _only_ friend. It broke his heart to know that Bucky would have died alone. 

 

Six years later Steve moved West to what is, at present, the new state of Colorado. He had grown up in the years between the war and his pilgrimage to the mountains, no longer skinny nor sick. In New York he’d found work as a shop keep, and then as a clerk in a police station. He met a girl named Peggy, one of the only people Steve had ever been close to outside of Bucky. They fell in love for a time, but New York held too many ghosts for Steve, and he craved the fresh air of the country more than he did the thrill of the city. 

He purchased a horse, a good bird dog, and set out West. The mountains were what stopped him, for he didn’t have enough supplies for the trip over, and the town he stopped in seemed a good place to make a home. In his long journey our to the mountains, Steve had caught word of a criminal ominously named “The Winter Soldier” who raided banks and trains with a band of European foreigners. He had thought little of it until, a year after he settled into the small mountain town of Colorado and they made him sheriff, he actually _met_ The Winter Soldier. 

How astonished he’d been. 

His .44 had dropped to the ground with a clatter and when Bucky turned to look at him, both were clearly shook to the core. For incredibly long minutes, neither moved, not Steve from the doorway nor Bucky from the train’s safe. How Steve had recognized Bucky, he had no idea, but it seemed that after 8 years, very little had changed. Well, it wasn’t that, was it, because everything had changed--but Steve still _knew,_ could feel it in the air the moment he burst into the train car. 

Bucky had a gun to the man’s head who was kneeling before the safe, opening in. Part of the reason Steve recognized Bucky was his eyes; He wore a black bandana over his nose, shielding most of his face, but his blue-grey eyes were still clear in the lantern light. And he had apparently recognized Steve as well, for he pulled down the cloth, his mouth agape. 

As his gun lowered, Steve looked Bucky over, everything, his left hand that glinted in the lamplight, his stubbled jaw and wide eyes. He looked the same, just older, battle-roughened. The man stared up at Steve, eyes hopeful that he would shoot Bucky on the spot. But the sheriff dropped his gun. 

_“....Bucky?”_ Steve breathed, voice tremulous as he took another step forward. Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed together, the stern expression on his face splintering, though his hand held his pistol steady. 

_“You...that isn’t the Steve I know...”_ He murmured, breathless with shock. 

_“It’s been eight years Buck,”_ Despite the situation, Steve huffed a laugh, _“Put the gun down.”_ He urged, and took another step forward. Bucky glanced at the man in front of him, then in one quick movement, bashed the butt of his gun into the man’s temple. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious, but appearing no worse for wear. Steve frowned hard at him, but at least they could speak freely for a moment. 

_“You gonna take me in?”_ Bucky asked, an oddly expectant expression on his face. For a few seconds Steve just gawked, still flabbergasted that Bucky was _robbing a train,_ then fumbled for the cuffs tucked into his gun belt. He steps forward while taking a quick glance over his shoulder, should any of the other men they’ve got out on this robbery to come stomping in. 

_“Put your hands behind your back,”_ Steve breathes, grabbing Bucky’s wrists in his hand, pressing against his back, and pushing him forward a little till his front hit the safe. Bucky let out a small grunt, _“Christ, Bucky, what is this?”_ The blond asked as he snapped one of the shackles around Bucky’s fleshy wrist. The other...it was strange, like he wore a metal glove. When the second cuff was clapped onto it, it gave a hollow, tinny sound, and Steve lifted his head to look at Bucky’s face, turned over his shoulder. 

His profile had always been different to Steve, and now it looked stranger in the flickering lamplight. 

_“You spring me later tonight and I’ll tell you everything.”_

__

The incident sent Steve’s moral compass whizzing in all directions in confusion, so caught up in the fact that _Bucky is alive_ and _Bucky is The Winter Soldier._ He asked for watch that night at the jail in town, and it was so small that it didn’t matter he was the only one. No one else was there, save for Bucky and Steve’s dog Thor, laying at his feet. He himself had a chair pulled up to Bucky’s cell, elbows on his knees and chin in his hand. His blue eyes were stuck on where the bars meet floorboards. Bucky said nothing, and in the silent of the room, they sat and contemplated how the other was where they were. 

It feels like they passed hours that way, and Steve could not stand it any longer, so he shot up, grabbing the keys to the cell door. His hands shook, but he opened it and there was Bucky, ready to leave. No doubt he knew the importance of a quick getaway. Without a word to his friend, Steve made his way to the door in back, there for transporting criminals just like the Winter Soldier. Of course the grey mare was there next to Loki, and Thor followed up the rear, right on Bucky’s ankles. 

They mounted just as silently as they had left the prison, and in the dead of night they galloped away from the sleeping town. Down from the little valley the town slumbered in, was Steve’s home. It was a small place, two stories with a small barn for his horse, and a field for the same. More than that, it was his own, and that much was a blessing after the life he’d had. 

He put the grey mare and Loki in the field while he and Bucky went inside. Steve fixed up some supper and demanded Bucky explain _everything,_ which he did in terse detail. Only one of Steve’s assumptions had been correct: Bucky had been captured by the Rebels, for a time, but when he gave them no information of value, they let him go. It had been rough, what they put him through, and that much was obvious on the expression Bucky wore. 

After he’d been released, he was no where near where their regiment had been stationed, and thusly he was reassigned, for the higher-ups couldn’t care to go looking for where he was supposed to be when they needed him at the front. He’d fought for a time, and two months before the war ended, they had to take his arm. 

(At that point in his telling, Bucky pulled his left arm from his shirt, exposing the strange iron prosthetic.) 

A minié ball had hit him in the shoulder, the kind that flattened on impact, and the doctors told him he was lucky they could amputate so soon. When it was all said and done, they’d let him go back to New York, but not before asking if he’d like to volunteer for a sort of “experiment” concerning prothetic limbs. Bucky had just shrugged and accepted on the grounds that they don’t take anything else. 

_“And they gave me this instead,”_ Bucky lifted his hand and flexed the fingers, bunched them into a fist, and then shrugged with that shoulder for emphasis, _“Works like a charm.”_ He grinned wide, happy like nothing was wrong. Steve couldn’t find it in himself to do the same. Resting his head in his palm, he traced a deep gash in the wood of his table with his finger and shook his head. 

_“I thought you died,”_ He murmured, _“For the longest time I mourned for you, with no body to bury and no cross to put up. I was...”_

_“That how you found your way out here?”_ Bucky said softly, rising from his stool. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve watched Bucky move toward him. Next thing he knew a warm hand settled on his left shoulder, and slid across slowly to the other, _“That why you’re so big now?”_ There was a chuckle in his voice as he leaned down, settling his face against the cornsilk of Steve’s hair in a half embrace. 

_“Yeah.”_ Steve sighed and twisted on his own stool, reaching an arm out to wrap around Bucky’s waist. From there it seemed so simple to slide into an embrace, Bucky’s arms around Steve’s shoulders, the blond’s face buried against his chest. The metal hand wove through Steve’s hair, unforgiving fingers brushing lightly over his scalp. It was an odd feeling, but being wrapped in Bucky’s arms (however inhuman one of them was) was so familiar. It was the comfort of the only home Steve had ever known, this cage of Bucky’s arms, and the way his breathing rasped in his chest like a lullaby to Steve, long forgotten, and now remembered. 

Bucky stayed that night, curled up in front of the hearth, swathed in blankets while Steve slept in his bed upstairs. Or tried to sleep, anyhow, his thoughts kept him restless for most of the night. When he finally did slip off into a rather lucid doze, he was woken in the night by the skittering of Thor’s claws on the floorboards. The light filling his room was still dully and grey, the sun having not yet breached the rim of the valley. Steve made no pretense of creeping down the stairs, for they were never quiet, and especially not under his weight. At the foot of them, Thor stood wagging his tail, tongue hanging out of his mouth and looking quite like he was ready to go. 

To their right, in the kitchen, Bucky stood at the side door. His boots were in his hands, saddlebags slung over his shoulder and he looked bogged down for it, the expression on his face sleepily guilty. As Steve descended the stairs they said nothing, just stared at one another in the pre-morning darkness. 

_“Just like that?”_ Steve asked as he descended the last few stairs to stand next to his dog. Bucky turned to face him, shoulders slumping now that he’d been caught, more or less. 

_“Didn’t want to wake you. I gotta be on my way.”_ He murmured, shrugging those slack shoulders. The blond frowned, forlorn, and shook his head. Steve didn’t want to let Bucky go yet again, he never did, for it was an incredibly hard thing to do. But he knew that Bucky had never been one for staying in any given place for too long; that’s why he’d been good in the war, that’s why he was good at being the Winter Soldier. 

_“Why don’t you stay another night?”_ He said softly, gently as if speaking to a skittish horse. While it may not have been necessary, Steve didn’t know Bucky like he used to. Nothing he felt for his friend had changed, but the man himself had in was Steve wasn’t sure of yet, but wanted--needed to find out. 

_“Just can’t, Stevie, you should know that...”_ That nickname jogged a lot of memories for Steve, most of them too good for how bittersweet this moment was. 

_“Why not, no one knows you’re here, hardly anyone comes out here for me anyways. They’re not gunna know if they don’t already.”_ An edge of desperation had worked its way into Steve’s voice, but he didn’t want to let Bucky go so easily, not this time. He’d regretted not looking back that day in Tennessee, not looking out for his best friend just as Bucky had done for him all their lives. In many ways, Steve felt he’d betrayed Bucky and his trust in Steve. 

_“You know why not, just let it be.”_ Bucky’s voice dropped a bit in warning, blue eyes hardening faintly. It wasn’t a look Steve had seen, if ever, on his friend and he most certainly didn’t like it. 

_“Cause you’re a criminal? I think it’s obvious by now I don’t care about any of that business. I let you go once, and I’m not inclined to do it again.”_ He took a few steps toward his friend who looked up at him, probably disconcerted he had to look up now. Things had changed so much. For a long while Bucky was silent, his eyes searching Steve’s face. 

_“I prefer commodities investor,”_ He replied finally, softly, with a wry smile. Steve didn’t find it all that funny, so Bucky sighed, smirk disappearing as his head bowed so he could stare at his feet, _“You didn’t let me go, Steve, there was nothin’ you could do then, and there’s nothin’ you can now short of cuffing me to the table. And I’m pretty sure you left those at the jail. So it looks like I’m goin.”_ Bucky finished, all flippant arrogance. That hadn’t changed, at least. 

Steve’s face hardened, and his fists bunched at his sides. 

_“If you think I’m afraid of you, you got another thing coming.”_ He mumbled, and Bucky huffed a laugh. 

_“I don’t think you’re afraid of me. I’m just stating facts Steve, and I gotta go. Don’t wanna get you locked up for harboring a fugitive anyway,”_ Hand on the door, Bucky pushed it open and let in the cool morning air, _“Where’d my horse get off to?”_ He mumbled, stepping out onto the first, second, then third step that lead down into the side yard. Steve followed, eyes trained on the fenced-in section of field, and the dark patch amongst the tall grass that was undoubtedly Loki. The mare was a little bit harder to spot in the dim light, apart from the dark splotch of her mane in all the grey. None the less Bucky whistled loud between two fingers, and they both watched as she got to her feet not far from Loki. 

Both of them--the mare trotting to the gate and Loki hot on her heels--came to the call, but before Bucky could open the latch to the gate, Steve stepped down off the steps quickly. 

_“Bucky--James, please. Don’t go.”_ He let just how bad he needed Bucky to stay bleed into his words, again making his desperation show that much more. It worked enough to get Bucky to look back at his friend with an indiscernible expression, making him look both torn and angry. He shook his head and moved away from the fence, feet quickly carrying him over the space between he and the tall blond. 

Steve braced himself for a punch, maybe, or for Bucky to shove him, for the look on his face was hard and full of unknown intent. When the brunette’s hands fisted in his shirt collar, Steve was startled, but it was nothing compared to the paralyzing shock he felt when Bucky’s lips were crushed against his. The force of their collision sent them both stumbling until Steve’s back hit the side of his house, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Bucky didn’t let up though, instead opening his mouth to breathe in deeply and Steve found himself doing the same. He couldn’t process what exactly was happening at the time, merely did what his body told him to. 

Long, long seconds passed as they stood pressed together, before Bucky moved, withdrawing enough so he could speak. Steve gasped shallowly in lieu of his friend’s lips, unsure what to do or say, unsure of everything. Bucky’s hands tightened again in Steve’s shirt, pressing their foreheads together. 

_“I’ll come back some day soon,”_ His breath was warm against the blond’s lips where they were moist, “ _I’ll come back.”_ He whispered, fingers uncurling from their fists to touch at the sides of Steve’s neck delicately. For such a simple and light touch, Steve felt himself wanting more, even though one set of fingers was chilly against his skin. With unsure, halted motions, Bucky leaned closer and closer again, his slate-blue eyes locked on Steve’s even as their lips touched, if only for a fraction of a second. Steve held the gaze for what felt like such a long time, until his eyelids fluttered closed, and he gave himself over to the fact that he was kissing his best friend. 

Bucky’s lips were soft where Steve had expected them to be a cracked and wind-dry like his own. It was simple and chaste, a mere meeting of lips, warm and surprisingly...right. There wasn’t a doubt in Steve’s mind about this whatsoever, it didn’t feel out of place and he didn’t want to push Bucky away. Didn’t want this to stop, more importantly, and nor did he want Bucky to leave and take this warm comfort with him. 

But it was inevitable, and very gradually, Bucky withdrew, both his hands and lips. Steve found himself chasing the contact a bit, leaning forward until he could no longer feel his friend’s warmth. Only then did he open his eyes in time to see Bucky do the same, his face soft and a little sad. Taking a step back, he sighed, his lips pressing together, and if Steve weren’t in complete shock, he’s say his friend looked a little rueful. 

As Bucky turned and made his way to the fence, they were both silent once again, though no doubt for different reasons. Steve was merely trying to understand, to process, and to get a grasp on what was happening. His eyes stayed fixed reverently on his friend as he pulled back the gate, and the grey mare came plodding out, waiting for Bucky near the fence. Bucky made quick work of tacking his horse, for not moments later he was shoving his foot in a stirrup to swing himself up onto her back, reigns in hand. In the doorway to the kitchen, Thor barked. 

Without another word, Bucky tugged gently at the reigns, the grey mare turning till she faced the hill above Steve’s home. Bucky gave Steve a wink, and his horse a swift kick, then in a flurry of hoofbeats he was gone. The sound shook Steve out of his momentary reverie, and he turned to watch his friend go, the sun barely peeking over the hill’s top when Bucky reached it. 

 

So the short answer was no. He hadn’t known  Winter Soldier up until a few years ago, and even then he was just Bucky to Steve.

Between then and now, he had only seen Bucky one other time. It was as brief as the last--just one night--but it was a treasured visit none the less. They didn’t speak of how they had said good bye to one another the last time Bucky had been in Steve’s home, but in a way they didn’t need to. The kiss certainly never felt wrong or out of place to Steve, in the days that followed, and more than he found himself wondering _why_ it happened, he simply wanted Bucky to come back. 

Here he had gone and spent the better part of a decade thinking that his friend was dead, that he’d _left_ Bucky behind for the rebels. He had continued running after all, till he reached the camp and only a few of their comrades had survived along with him. An enormous amount of guilt had been foisted onto his shoulders, under which he had been determined to become, if not a better man, but a better soldier, maybe one strong and capable enough to find his best friend. Moreover, Bucky wasn’t there to protect him any longer, to calm his breathing fits, and if he didn’t learn how to survive on his own, he wouldn’t have lasted two minutes longer in the war. 

Steve had apologized to Bucky for that day, to which the older man had simply smiled, mouth closed as he chewed his dinner, and reached across the corner of the table to pat the blond’s cheek affectionately. 

_“There was nothing you could do, Stevie, believe me.”_

But it made him ache to think that was even half true. Either way, Bucky forced him to move on, later telling him as they sat by the hearth, book in his lap, that he was alive and here and what else could matter? 

 

 

The wind was colder along the mountain ridge where Bruce and Peter took Steve, and though the snow was deep among the trees, the road was less. Hoof prints, mud, and wheel tracks mottled the trail in chaotic sequences where the robbery no doubt occurred, then a mile beyond that, the pristine white of fresh snow had been disturbed by red streaks of blood and a thick path through the snow showed the presence of their quarry. 

Steve inhaled deep the cool air of the mountain, his chin and the tips of his ears burning with cold as he turned his face up toward the sun that looked dulled by thin wisps of lingering storm clouds. It was nice in these hills, lush and green all year round, and full of life. At night they could sometimes hear wolves howling from the town, if it was a still night.

“He won’t last long up here boys, I think we can head home. They’ll leave him for dead and the animals’ll pick him off by the time they got back anyway.” Steve said, pulling up on Loki’s reigns, then tugging to the left to turn him back down the trail from whence they came. Bruce frowned, looking off toward the disturbed snow where Lukin must have dragged himself into what he thought was the safety of the trees. 

“And tell Fury what?” He asked, his horse stamping it’s feet as he turned it just as Steve had done. Peter stayed silent and followed the two of them. The blond shrugged, looking down to the valley then. 

“I’ll tell him what happened. If he wants to go tromping off into the woods in freezing weather that’s his prerogative, and by then Lukin will be long dead. It’s a waste of time,” Steve said, effectively ending that conversation, “If Fury wanted him that badly, he could’ve sent for me this morning.” And with that they took off back to town without a backward glance, for there was nothing more to do there. Somewhere Lukin was clawing through the snow, half frozen to death already. 

 

There wasn’t much for him to do for the rest of the day, so he stopped in to the saloon to say hello to it’s owner Logan, and apparently Tony Stark, who opted to stay for a drink instead of getting his valuable merchandise back on its intended path. Tony had a problem though, but Steve didn’t say anything usually, unless he had to drag the man back home from that very saloon. He liked Tony and Logan true enough, they were good company and had been generous to Steve in his time here, but it never felt exactly right, the way he new it could. The way it did once, and it made him wonder if the only friend he could ever feel right with was a wanted criminal in six states. 

Or maybe it was love. Maybe he wanted to love someone the way he loved Bucky to assuage some of the pain of being so besotted by one so obviously unavailable as James. He had never really thought much about this feeling toward his best friend, this thing that bloomed in his chest whenever he saw him, bright, warm, and so completely indescribable. But after their first goodbye when he’d begged Bucky to stay, he wondered that maybe that was love he’d been feeling for longer than he could even remember. 

Now, he was fairly certain that’s what it was. There was no other explanation for the reason he’d dreamed of that kiss a thousand and one times, or any other things he dreamt of at night. And he’d never thought of any other man that way just....just Bucky...so it that had to be it. 

For a few hours, Steve milled about town, here and there where he was thought to be needed. He made his way to the courthouse, to find the mayor and inform him of Lukin. Suffice to say Fury was not happy in the least, but there was little else they could do. At five, right on time, he made his way back to the jail where the gray mare was still tied fast to the post, nosing at some grass at the base of it. Instead of tying Loki up beside her, Steve slid out of his saddle, reigns in hand, and began to untie his friend’s horse. She was no doubt getting cold out here in this weather after the activity this morning and no decent rub down, or source of food but a few short grasses. Patting her neck, Steve took both her and Loki’s reigns in his hand, tugging them both toward the corner of the jail. 

In back, he tied them up next to one another, though it was all he could do for the mare just then. Later, when they rode home, he would spare a little more attention for her. From there he entered the jail from the back, through a hall along the side of the cells. Sam was there, feet propped up on the desk, a book in his hands as usual. He was surprisingly literate, better with words than Steve had ever been. 

“Tired yet Sam?” Steve asked as he plucked his hat off of his head and stepped into the main room of the jail. Kicking his feet off the desk, Sam slapped his book closed, and stood from his chair. 

“Not in the least, but I’m sick’a sittin’ in here with him.” He nodded toward the one occupied cell, as Steve approached, setting his hat on the desk between them. Licking his wind-dry lips, the blond looked back toward the cell, but couldn’t see his friend from this angle. 

“He talk your ear off yet?” He teased, slapping Sam on the shoulder, “You go get a night’s rest, say hi to Sharon for me.” Sharon was Sam’s wife, a teacher at the tiny local school. Sam grinned and nodded as he stepped toward the door. 

“Sure thing. No doubt the second I do she’ll be wantin’ you to come for dinner.” He called, though he was halfway out the door. Steve smiled, taking a few slow paces toward the door as well, peering out the doorway to watch as Sam made his way down the steps. 

“Tell her I’ll be there!” The sheriff called, and listened carefully for the familiar sound of plodding hoofbeats, before turning toward the cells. Bucky was still stretched out on the small wooden bench, shoulders leaned up against the wall, arms crossed, and his weathered black hat tipped over his face. 

“You aren’t napping are you?” Steve raised his eyebrows slightly as he traipsed over to the cell, boots dragging over the floorboards a little. Behind the bars his friend stirred, uncrossing his arms and legs, taking off his hat with a glinting hand. With the hat gone, Steve could see Bucky’s usual smirk as he stood from the bench, stretching his arms a little. 

“Nah. It’s not as comfortable as your floor. Colder too,” He groaned lightly, back arching, and Steve just shook his head with a breathy laugh, looking over his shoulder. If by some off chance someone else decided to stop by, they couldn’t be caught exchanging quips like the fast friends they were. Soon, though, when the sun set behind the mountains, everyone would have hunkered down into their beds, none too keen on braving the frigid temperatures brought on by a winter’s night, and they could leave without backward glances. 

“Well, then you’ve still got that to look forward to, don’t you?” Steve said, settling his hands on his hips as Bucky sauntered up close to the bars, hands curling around them. 

“Oh yeah?” The brunette raised his eyebrows, grin widening. 

“What happened this morning? Your guys off their game? Lukin’s most likely dead, saw where he’d crawled off into the woods, leaking blood the whole way.” It was a terrible way to die, now that Steve thought back to it but...Lukin was a rather terrible man, when it came to it. 

“Nice dinner for the cats, huh?” Bucky’s smile had dropped just a little, faltering, even as he joked about one of his comrades’ deaths. 

“Guess so,” Steve shrugged, eyes still fixed on his friend. He looked tired, ragged, worn down, and in need of a meal, or several, “You alright? You’re looking pretty rough, Bucky.” With a shrug, the brunette tipped his head down, pushing away from the bars though his hands still gripped them. 

“Yeaaah.....I’m tired, Steve....” He murmured, making Steve step a little closer to the bars, “Real tired. Sick of not having anything to eat but...god knows what the hell Tasha cooks up ‘n’.....I hurt, everywhere, that old wound in my leg...Especially with this cold.” 

“I can take a look at it when we get home,” The way he said it, made it sound like _their_ home, and what a novel thought that was, “You’ll feel better after a wash and a decent meal.” All his life, Bucky had looked after Steve, and now he needed to return the favor, if only because he was concerned for his friend. And maybe he could convince Bucky to stay... 

“Can we go now?” Bucky grinned again, lifting his head to look up at Steve again, their blue eyes meeting. 

“Sun’s almost down. Another half-hour, tops.” He glanced out a small window that faced south, where the sky was a dusky purple-blue. Waiting, however monotonous, was necessary, for if they were caught, they’d both be hanged the next day. 

Even still, any time Steve had alone with Bucky was precious, and he treated it as such, pulling a chair up by the bars of his friend’s cell so they could talk quietly. Bucky told him where he’d been for the last few years since they’d seen one another, about a bank job in Montana, of the strangeness of Yellowstone in the summer, and that they should go there sometime, up to Wyoming. Steve smiled on cue, shaking his head lightly, for he knew that would never happen. Beyond the day’s they had, once every few years, they couldn’t ask for much more. No matter what they had been in the past, they moved in completely different circles now, ones that ran on despite what either of them felt for the other. 

Around six, and about as quietly as he could, Steve unlocked the door of Bucky’s cell. When it slid back, his friend greeted him properly, with a rib-crushing hug, and the blond just smiled, embracing his friend in return. They couldn’t dally long, though, and they’d have time to give each other a proper greeting when the door of Steve’s house had shut at their back, so after they released one another, they made their way to the back door quickly. Out back, Loki was nickering at the mare, trying to get a rise out of her as usual, and had no such luck before Steve and Bucky were swinging onto their horses. 

It was cold outside now, frigid and the sky was milky with clouds. Before they could even reach the edge of town, snow flakes began to float down from them, and there they spurred their horses into a gallop, the wind whipping at their faces. Steve had his handkerchief around his neck pulled up over his nose to keep his face warm, and after a few minutes of riding in the chilling weather, Bucky did the same. By the time they reached the ridge above Steve’s home, the valley below it was blanketed in snow, and it was almost hard to see the white-washed house in the storm. Still, both men smiled though the other couldn’t see it, and rode down the hill at an easy pace. To Bucky, this place was as good as home as he’d ever get, with it’s dark windows and little barn for the horses. 

Steve took the horses into the barn, while Bucky yelled that he’d be inside, most likely starting a fire and lighting the lamps. It didn’t take him long to untack Loki and the mare, get them oats and water, and a decent rub down even if he couldn’t feel his fingers. Or his chin, nose, or ears. After throwing a bit of extra hay in both of their stalls for warmth, Steve closed the door to the barn for the night, and ran the distance between that and his front door. The windows of the first floor were all alight with the warmth of the lanterns, a fire no doubt too-big in the hearth. 

Pulling the door open and slipping in quickly, Steve looked immediately to where Buck sat, in front of the fireplace. His hat, coat, boots, socks and gloves were gone, and Thor was sitting at his side, tongue wagging of of his mouth as Bucky scratched his head. 

“He’s gettin’ old,” The brunette laughed as the dog leaned in and tried to lick his face. Steve just smiled, pulling his handkerchief away from his neck and paced over to the fire, shrugging out of his coat as well. He could feel the heat, not a foot away from it. Kneeling down, he outstretched his hands to the flame, relishing in the warmth that stung through his fingers, “Mind if I wash up in a bit?”

“No, go ahead. I’ll start dinner then.” Steve said, ruffling a hand through his snow-flecked hair. He felt Bucky’s eyes on him, and returned the gaze with a small smile. His friend’s face had changed, harder in ways that Steve couldn’t specifically put a finger on, though he was still just as handsome as the drawings Steve made in his little sketchbook. Bucky sat forward for a moment, clapping Steve on the shoulder. 

“I missed you, pal. It’s been too long, like what, one, two years?” Bucky asked, grinning as he squeezed Steve’s shoulder. 

“Two and a half, give or take.” Steve looked down as if to hide his smile, because of course, he’d been counting the days since they’d last seen one another, but he’d never tell Bucky as much.  The brunette’s smile turned fond, his blue eyes soft in the light of the fire. It made all the hard edges softer in a way, his unshaven jaw, the hollows of his eyes, all mellowed in the warm flame. 

“You would be keeping track.” Bucky teased, as the younger man got to his feet. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve asked, pretending to sound offended as he turned his back to his friend and the fire, making his way into the kitchen. 

“It’s just like you, Rogers. You even keep your dates tidy,” Bucky called to Steve, and stood up as well, leaving his things by the fire anyway, for he’d be sleeping there tonight, “Write em down I bet.” He came to stand in the doorway to the kitchen, watching Steve gather things here and there, flour, butter, salt. 

Steve felt his face flush, for he had indeed written the dates down, and he knew them by heart. They were below a drawing of Bucky’s mechanical hand, of his profile, and of the weary line of his shoulders; one read _January 24th, 1872_ and the other was _May 4th, 1874._ That was one sketchbook he held very dear, for most of the drawings were ones he’d done from real life. It always surprised him a little that while Bucky would sit and read after dinner, or doze by the hearth, he was content to let Steve draw him. He never asked to see, and never teased Steve for always being so in love with his art. Well, it wasn’t the art, per se, but the subject, and _then_ the art. 

“Go get cleaned up, or you can go sleep in the barn with the horses.” Steve teased, watching as Bucky clasped his flesh and blood hand over his heart, feigning being wounded, but he turned anyhow, and circled around to the stairs. 

Steve smiled to himself as he tossed together ingredients for biscuits. 

Bucky was up and down the stairs, in and out heating water for his bath, while Steve prepared what little dinner he could scrounge up; mostly a bit of chicken, a potato fried up over the fire, several biscuits and jam he’d been given by a woman in town. The snow outside made everything near silent; the hiss and crackle in the fire, every little slosh of water as Bucky washed himself in the tub upstairs. Steve, while waiting for their food to cook, let his mind wander a bit as he sat at his roughly-hewn kitchen table. Almost every time Bucky was here, though his visits few and far between, the first thing he did was wash. The first time had been to cold to use the little trickle of a stream that ran out back, like now, but the second had been in the summer. 

It was evening, and Steve was standing at the kitchen window, scrubbing a splotch of blood from Bucky’s shirt. He’d disrobed right on the back steps, giving his shirt to the blond, and then, in nothing but his boots, made his way to the stream. Steve submerged the shirt in cold water, his job done as well as he could against the stain, and he rested his hands on either side of the pot, staring out the window at his friend. Bucky was better build since the last time they’d seen one another, his muscles thick and sinewy, as opposed to the strong, lanky kid Steve knew in the war. The breadth of his shoulders had changed, what with that new arm, but the rest of him seemed the same. 

His cheeks had flushed with warmth when Bucky turned, half of him facing the window as he splashed water up his legs, then cupped his hand to wash between them. Never once did Steve look away, though he wasn’t sure why--they’d seen one another naked plenty in the war, or, at least on a few occasions that he could remember--but it still felt a wild invasion of Bucky’s privacy. 

And then Bucky looked up, one eye squinted closed against the sun as he shot a knowing grin at Steve. 

Once, Steve had put the lines of his friend’s bare body on paper, but ended up crumpling it up and tossing it in the fireplace. Bucky had never been one for modesty, but he never brought it up that he’d Steve looking, so the blond figured maybe he didn’t quite see him there in the window. Still, every time Bucky asked to use his bath know, Steve felt nervous, and his skin got to feeling too tight, like he sat too close to the hearth. It was better Bucky used the tub upstairs anyway, where no one could see. 

“Steve,” The brunette hollered from upstairs, breaking Steve out of his thoughts. He jumped in his chair a little, and Thor lifted his head from where he lay on the floor as the blond stood, pacing to the stairs. 

“What?” He called in return, resting his hand on the banister he’d carved himself. 

“I uh-...Can you come up here please?” Bucky answered, voice a little quieter, sounding a bit timid. Steve shifted his weight uncomfortably, unsure of what Bucky could possibly need, but of course, he ended up tromping upstairs anyhow. The door was cracked to the only other room upstairs besides the one he himself slept in, so he stayed in the hall for a moment. 

“You want me to come in?” He called, looking down at the pool of light coming from the open door. 

“If you don’t mind. Bullet grazed me not three months ago in the ribs, and it’s still hurting something fierce. Can’t lift my arm without it...stinging, I don’t know, I just can’t reach my back...” Steve’s brow knit as he listened to his friend, curious as to why Bucky hadn’t said something earlier. He pushed back the door, peering in before actually entering the room. His friend was faced away from him, something for which he was thankful for. 

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” Steve asked as he crouched down next to the tub, a bit behind Bucky’s right shoulder, “Let me look at it, at least.” Bucky had a tendency to lie about the severity of his wounds; he’d once had a gash the side of a man’s hand on his thigh and about a finger’s breadth wide, a ragged looking wound, and said he’d nicked it on a fence. 

Bucky glanced over his shoulder at Steve, giving him a skeptical look, and reached his right arm forward. 

“It’s not much. Natasha said it might’ve got a rib, chipped it or something, but I don’t think she knows much about the body.” He laughed tightly, looking back at his friend as the blond tilted his head this way and that to survey the wound. It wasn’t too bad anymore, the scar still somewhat an angry red and rather large, but didn’t look infected, and had healed alright so far. Steve shifted forward onto his knees, holding his hand out. 

“Doesn’t look too bad. Rag?” He asked, already feeling his face burn for what he could see of Bucky. He’d seen him naked, sure, but never this close. When Bucky plopped the wet rag into his hand with a wily smile, Steve dipped it in the water, where his friend had sat forward a little. From there, he carefully started at Bucky’s right shoulder, and made a sweeping line down that same side of his back. 

As he ran the cloth over his friend’s back, wetting it between motions, Steve didn’t say anything. He didn’t really know _what_ to say at a time like that, and figured, since Bucky was silent as well, it was alright. Yet there was something tense in the set of the brunette’s shoulder, how still he was. It wasn’t awkward, in so many words but...it was. 

When Steve has finished with Bucky’s back, he dipped the rag in the water once more, and raised it to his friend’s right shoulder. He tried not to sigh, or breathe out so raggedly as he dragged the rag down the muscular cap of his shoulder, then up his neck a bit, but couldn’t help it. The blond bit his lip, watching the beads of water roll down the valley of Bucky’s spine, then wet the cloth again. Steve moved a little, his knees stinging where they rested against the floor, and reached up to run the rag over Bucky’s left shoulder, careful to avoid the mechanical shoulder a bit. He did the same for this shoulder as he did the other, running the cloth halfway up Bucky’s neck, then down to the nape of it. 

With a grin he knew his friend couldn’t see, Steve rubbed the cloth behind Bucky’s ear quickly, immediately feeling his friend react, body tensing a little bit more. 

“Don’t forget what sister Margaret taught you, wash behind your ears.” Steve laughed, and Bucky twisted half-way in the tub to swat at Steve with his metal hand, water sloshing out of the sides of the tub. 

“You shit,” He grinned back at the blond, however, a real, genuine grin, “Thanks for washing me up, now get out.” With his other hand, he splashed water at Steve, making him jump up from his place behind Bucky, and toss the rag at the back of his head. 

“Yeah alright, dinner’s almost ready, darlin’,” Steve teased, walking to the small medicine cabinet in the corner of the room. He opened its only door, looked at a few bottles and tins for a moment, then reached out to take a larger tin from the tiny shelf, “Rub some of this on it when you’re done. It’s always worked for me.” As he turned back to Bucky, Steve tossed him the tin, and made for the door. 

“Thanks Steve.” Bucky called, though his friend was already halfway down the stairs. 

 

Not long later, as Steve set out the meager meal, Bucky traipsed down the stairs, hair still dripping wet and patches of his undershirt shirt damp. Steve raised his eyebrows at his friend as he crouched down in front of the stove, flicking a hand through his hair to shake off a bit of the water. 

“You’re gonna catch cold like that,” Steve gave him a nod and pulled one of his stools up to the kitchen table, resting his chin in his palm. Bucky just grinned of course, wiping his hands on his trousers as he sidled up to the other chair, caddy corner to his friend. 

“You lay an egg yet, mother hen?” The brunette teased, reaching out to spoon a few potatoes onto his plate, before handing them to Steve. They simply smiled at one another, warm and just as easy as their rapport always had been. 

As they ate, the two men were quiet, save for a word here and about what had happened to both of them over the past three years. Bucky, as usual, had been around the mountains, up and over and down and through all the sleepy little towns that never expected him and his comrades. Steve never asked after the extent of his friend’s crimes, for he preferred not to know. Sometimes, Bucky told him anyway, and the blond gave him a stern look, and the subject was dropped. It may have been a way to deny who Bucky was, only see what he wanted to see in a way, but...well it was just easier this way. He dealt with it, in his mind, because he knew, but on the outside, Steve simply wanted to be with his friend. He didn’t want to bring their different lives into it, just the one they shared.

When Steve opened a jar of jam, though, something he’d been saving for--well, an occasion like this, Bucky raised his eyebrows so high it was as if they were reaching for his hairline. Steve broke the wax seal before looking up at his friend, and stilled his hands. 

“What?” He asked, innocent as ever. Bucky cracked a bit of a smirk, and shook his head, looking down at his nearly empty plate. The brunette set down his fork, and nodded at the jam in Steve’s hand. 

“You canning that stuff here now, or what? You need to find a husband Steve, you’re out here all alone cookin’ and makin’ jelly with no one to appreciate you.” Bucky teased, and Steve rolled his eyes as he pried the top off the jar with a knife. Strawberry. 

“ _No,_ I didn’t make this...” He told his friend, in that defensive way he did when Bucky would tease him when they were kids, “Woman in town gave it to me.” That, Steve knew, would probably spur Bucky on a little more. 

“Oo-oooh. So maybe it’s a wife you need. These women in town always give you jam and jelly? Just _cause?”_ Bucky grinned mischievously, and watched Steve spread the preserves over one of his biscuits, before handing the glass jar over. The older man took it, licking his lips none too subtly, “Haven’t had jam in years...” He mumbled, almost as if it was to himself. 

“Nah, she gave some to all of us; tree fell into the side of their house in the last storm, and they couldn’t pay us, so she gave us a few jars of jam each after we helped clear the mess.” Steve smiled at Bucky, who merely raised his eyebrows in reply, sticking his knife between his lips to suck a bit of the jam off of it. 

“Yeah that sounds like you...” He said quietly, biting into his biscuit loaded with jam and melted butter. His tone had changed from teasing to...quiet truth. Steve looked down at his own nearly empty plate, as they fell into silence again. 

 

It wasn’t as if Bucky resented Steve for being the man that he was (a good man, unlike him), in fact he was incredibly proud of his friend. He could have seen it coming from a mile off, that Steve would have gone and been a sheriff, or something equally righteous, even when they were just kids in the war and Steve was skinny and perpetually sick. But Steve made him feel guilty for who he was; he was a criminal, his best friend on the opposite side of that, and yet Steve still welcomed him, still sprung him from that damn jail time and time again. What’d he do to deserve a friend like that? Robbed for a living? And here Steve was helping women pull trees out of their houses. 

Yet there was something Bucky felt when he looked at Steve, like maybe this was the only thing he’d done right in his life--whether that was _leaving_ Steve alone, or sticking by his side since they were tots, he wasn’t sure.

“That was good Steve, really. Thank you,” Bucky said when he’d finished his biscuit, wiping the crumbs off on his trousers, “But honestly, don’t you think it’s time to settle down? I’m sure all the women up on that hill of yours are just falling over themselves trying to get your attention. And here you are making me dinner....” He smiled down at his plate, and folded his arms on the table. Truthfully, he hated the idea of Steve all set up with a wife, some pretty girl who kissed him when he got home, planted flowers out in front of the house, but it’d be better than him all alone, waiting for Bucky to come by every couple of years for a night or two. 

Steve shrugged in that shy way he had, and smiled because he couldn’t help it. “I don’t know. I just don’t really....” He knew deep down, it was because of Bucky, though the hows and whys were blurry, “Want to yet, I guess. I don’t mind being alone so much, I’ve got Thor-”

“Oh Jesus, he’s your dog, Steve,” Bucky sat back and rolled his eyes dramatically, and Steve paused for a moment as a thoughtful look came over his friend’s face, “...Don’t tell me you’ve been fucking your dog.” The blond balked, eyes bugging out wide and mouth hanging open. Bucky slapped his hand on the table and laughed heartily. 

“Bucky, Christ, what is wrong with you!” Steve shrieked, his voice a little high as Bucky continued to laugh. 

“I’m just joking, of course, relax Stevie,” He mumbled, still chuckling between his words. A pause stretched between them as his laughter, and eventually his smile, died off, “I’m serious though Steve. Don’t you get lonely out here? You need someone to warm your bed.” 

Steve immediately thought _“you”_ without any consideration or hesitation as he looked at Bucky across the table. 

“I really don’t,” That was a lie, but he wasn’t going to let Bucky know that, “It’s nice, I don’t mind it all that much ‘n’...” If he had a wife, she would know about Bucky, and Steve wouldn’t be able to bring him here, keep him safe and alive for a little longer. In truth he never wanted anyone but Bucky, in any sense. For a few moments the older man said nothing, a slow smile spreading across his lips. He shook his head in silence, staring at the table. 

“You’re a terrible liar.” Bucky grinned, that smile that Steve recognized from when they were boys. It made his heart clench, yearning for a different life. 

“I guess I never really have to do it, so...” Steve chuckled, looking down at his lap as another long silence lapsed between them. The blond kept his eyes on the grain of the table, the faint scratches that the wood had accumulated over the years. 

“Mind if I go sit by the fire? Toes are cold.” Bucky said, settling his knife on his plate, and stood up from his stool. Taking his plate, he look it to the tub filled with water that served as Steve’s sink, and set it on the counter next to it. Steve stayed in his seat, though he wasn’t sure why. 

“Yeah, sure,” He replied in a light tone, looking up in time to watch Bucky smile at him as he walked into the sitting room. Sighing, the blond pushed himself up from the table, suddenly feeling weary, as if the conversation, the feelings it elicited in him were exhausting. 

As he cleaned up from dinner, Steve could hear Bucky dragging one of the sitting room chairs before the fire, stoking the flames, and adding another log or two to it. He had been right, that it was nice having someone around, but Steve suspected that it was just Bucky himself, his presence that made Steve feel a little...well it made him feel good. Just to have another person with him, someone he could really talk to, someone who really knew him, and someone _he_ really knew. A relief, really. 

When everything was done, put away and cleaned up, Steve wiped his hands on a cloth, and walked out into the sitting room. Bucky was sitting in a chair, as Steve had guessed, with is feet propped up precariously on the grate in front of the hearth, socks draped over his knees. He twisted in the chair at the sound of Steve’s footsteps, looking up at his friend. 

“Dinner was great Steve, thanks again, sorry I’m not much of a uh,” Bucky shrugged, as the other man pulled up a chair, “Help. I’m not good for much if it’s not...blowing up a safe or...shootin guns...” He looked at his hands in his lap, worn, scratched, calloused, and scarred from the latter, and the metal one was no exception. It’s varnish was dull on his palm, dull and paler than the rest of his prosthetic arm, which was dented and scratched and dinged from bullets and god knows how many hundreds of other things he’d been attacked with. 

“Of course Bucky. Oh come on, you’ve...you’ve managed to keep the mare alive? She looks good, and how old is she? Ten? Eight?” Steve grinned, eyebrows raised as he slid his chair next to Bucky’s. 

“She’s eight. Thor is ten. Loki is six.” Bucky drawled, looking over at Steve with a fond smile. 

“And you have the memory.” The blond grinned back at him proudly and plopped down in his own, worn chair, the one he usually read in. At the sound of his name, Thor had pulled himself off the floor in front of the back door, and trotted over to them. He nosed at the underside of Steve’s elbow until the man pet his head. 

“Well that’ll probably go soon too.” Bucky mumbled, rubbing his metal fingers together. 

“You were a good shot back in the day.” Steve offered, eyebrows raising a little as he looked over at Bucky. The brunette just scoffed at him, shaking his head even though a smile graced his face. It was humorless, though. Outside the wind was starting to howl again, and Steve knew it’d probably start snowing again soon. 

“That was a long time ago Steve. I mean, I’m still a good shot but...” The smile faded, and Bucky shook his head, “I don’t know. It’s not enough.” 

Silence again, and Steve didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t even sure what Bucky meant, but his tone was off. So there went another conversation. Steve just sighed and looked at Thor, who always had sad sort of eyes but was still a happy dog. 

“Have you been back?” Bucky asked all of a sudden, his tone a little lighter, and when he looked at Steve, his eyebrows were raised. 

“Back where?” The blond asked, scratching behind Thor’s ear. 

“Home. New York. North. Warm.” Bucky chuckled quietly. 

“Not since the war. I couldn’t make it back out there if I tried.” Steve shook his head and looked over at his friend, watched the fire move on the surface of his metal skin. The flames gave that an orange tint too, much as it did the rest of the room. Bucky’s eyes looked a little less blue, too. 

“Why not? We should go back some day.” Bucky said it like it was the simplest thing in the world and just go North again. With a quiet snort, Steve shook his head again, smoothing his hand down over Thor’s nose, where his fur was turning grey. 

“Are you a wanted man there?” Steve asked, glancing at his friend with a look that said he already knew the answer. His friend sat there in silence that told him that was the wrong question to ask. 

“No, but what would it matter? I’m a convicted felon in _this_ state, Steve, and you don’t seem to care much,” There was a hint of a smile on Bucky’s lips, and he raised his eyebrows at Steve, pinning him with a look, “Anyway, I haven’t been caught for any crimes in New York.” His smirk turned a bit more wry, and Steve had to chuckle. 

“Then maybe one day.” 

 

For a bit longer they talked, about nothing in particular, really, before Steve began to get a little sleepy, no doubt from sitting by the fire with a full belly. Patting Bucky on the shoulder, he left the living room to make his way up the stairs and to his linen closet, pulling out a few quilts for Bucky to make his bed in front of the hearth. He had no pillow to spare for his friend, so he pulled another thick blanket down from the shelf. 

Downstairs in the sitting room, Bucky was pushing the chairs back into their rightful place on either side of the stone fireplace. The fire still burned bright and warm in the hearth, throwing long shadows into the corners of the room, all of them seeming to move as the flames wavered and danced. Bucky looked up at Steve when the blond stepped down from the last stair, and moved forward to take the blankets from his friend. 

“If you need more, you know where the closet is. It’s snowing again, and windy, so...” Steve didn’t know why he was telling Bucky this, as if he didn’t know, but he just didn’t want to leave his friend just yet. 

“It’s fine, Thor’ll probably come curl up next to me when the fire dies out.” Bucky grinned at Steve over his shoulder as he spread one of the blankets out on the floor, folding it in half so the ground wasn’t as hard. Steve shook his head, smiling, and picked up one of the blankets, beginning to fold it up to make a pillow. 

“I was going to say don’t let the fire die out,” He chuckled, setting the makeshift pillow down at the head of the makeshift bed. Bucky sighed and pushed out of his suspenders, shaking his head at Steve, though a small smile lingered on his face, “What?” The blond asked, and Bucky shook his head again, looking down at his bare feet. 

“Nothing. I just...didn’t do anything to deserve a friend like you.” His a rueful shadow overtook his smile, though his eyes still held all the fondness in the world for Steve. 

“Bucky I probably wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you.” He’d said it many times and Bucky denied it each time, but that didn’t make it any less true. Truly, Steve would have probably been shot, or given over to consumption or worse, maybe the attacks on his lungs if it wasn’t for Bucky there to nurse him back to health. He still remembered coming out of he haze of sickness many a time to Bucky’s face. 

“Come on, don’t start that again.” The brunette grumbled, brushing past Steve to take his gunbelt off the banister where it hung, and tossed it on the chair next to his bed. 

“Alright, think what you want,” Steve shrugged, grinning, and turned toward the stairs, “Night Buck, s’good to have you here. You leaving in the morning?” 

Bucky didn’t reply, only stood in the middle of the sitting room, the fire at his back making his expression hard to discern. His fingers played with one of his suspenders, though Bucky never really fidgeted, and his eyes had focused on his feet again. Steve took a step back into the sitting room, wondering if something was wrong. Not like Bucky would tell him, of course, but he could still ask. 

“Yeah I....I probably should....dunno where I’m supposed to go.” He let out a nervous laugh, spreading his hands, like he was exasperated. And he was, he was tired, he was tired of constantly living on the run, getting separated from that gang of psychos he’d called his comrades for the past decade, running, always running. Staying with Steve always makes him feel that way, and he wants nothing more than to stay here, huddled up by the fire, talking with his oldest and only friend while the wind and snow and world passes them by outside. 

“Through the pass? Isn’t that wh-” 

“I don’t want to, Steve, I don’t want to go after the rest of ‘em...” Dragging a hand back through his hair, Bucky sighed, and Steve stayed silent, unsure what to tell his friend. The blond looked down at the floorboards, the shadows playing across them. 

Bucky was quiet for a long, long time. 

“You remember...that first time I came back here? After I spent the night?” He asked suddenly, voice a bit lighter than it had been. Lifting his head, Steve frowned and nodded. Of course he remembered that day; it was when he called Bucky “James,” and then Bucky had backed him up against the wall of his house, and kissed Steve. Simple as the kiss was, he thought of it often. 

“You...” He couldn’t say it though, for whatever reason. Bucky gave a humorless, breath of a laugh, looking toward the window. 

“I kissed you.” 

It’s the first time either of them had really acknowledged it, besides the time they’d actually done the act itself. 

A tiny, nostalgic smile crept up on Steve’s lips, and he looked down at his feet again. “Surprised you’re actually bringing it up.” He said, eyebrows raising a little because he is genuinely surprised. He had feared it would just go completely ignored, something that would fade until he couldn’t remember if it was memory or dream. 

“Why?” Bucky replied quietly with a frown. His friend shrugged. 

“Dunno. You didn’t...you didn’t the last few times so I thought-” 

“Thought wh-” 

“-you’d forgotten.” Steve lifted his head, eyes meeting Bucky’s one more time, and the brunette smiled, shaking his head. He waved Steve closer. 

“C’mere. Let me tell you something.” He chuckled, and the blond did as he was told, though slowly. 

“Tell me what?” Steve asked, feeling a bit...nervous? The room was too warm, maybe. Bucky rolled his eyes, and waved his hand again, so Steve stepped closer. 

“A secret.” 

Swallowing, the blond moved to stand in front of his friend, who was only a few inches shorter than him now, but it still felt strange to look _down_ at Bucky. Blue-grey eyes flickering down, the brunette reached out to the worn wool of Steve’s shirt, fingering its buttons and the holes, tugging lightly at each side of the shirt. 

“Natasha likes me, y’know. Really likes me, and we’ve been....intimate?” He smiled broadly, a bit too broad, as he looked up at Steve. The blond didn’t know Natasha, had only even caught glimpses of her, but the fact that she’d had Bucky that way made him...well it made him angry, “Anyway...after that, she’d crawl into my tent and draw up close, you know,” Bucky pulled Steve closer by his shirt till they nearly touched from toe to nose, “Crawl on top of me. And it always felt like a necessity sort of thing, being we were never settled anywhere. Anyway, I um. I thought of you when I was with her,” Tilting his face up, Bucky finally looked at Steve, his eyes a little brighter, “And when I was alone too, I only thought of you. I miss you so much sometimes, even though you’re all big ‘n’ grown up.” He laughed at that, but there was an edge to it, one Steve can’t figure out if it’s good or bad. 

Of course he had no idea what to say to that. What do you say when your best friend tells you he thinks about you when he makes love to his girl? The normal reaction, Steve figured, was probably revulsion, but he felt quite the opposite. It stirred a little something in him, hope, maybe, and something else indiscernible that made him want to smile. He didn’t though, out of confusion. Why would Bucky wait to tell him? 

“Um...” Steve shrugged his shoulders for some reason, looking over Bucky’s shoulder at the fire, “Why-...why didn’t you say something sooner?” Bucky shrugged too, and pushed a button of Steve’s shirt through it’s hole, letting his fingers move to the next before the blond really caught what his friend was doing. 

“You know me. I’m not good with my words and feelings and such. I just know what I...that you’re the only person I really know. And really love, and you’re the only person that really knows me, so.” He went on, unbuttoning Steve’s shirt, down, then up from where he’d started. 

“Bucky,” The blond looked down between them at his friend’s hands on the blue flannel of his shirt, parting the fabric a little as he went. 

“‘t’s alright, just let me.” Bucky’s voice was a little ragged, a little more raw than it had been, and, looking up, he caught Steve’s gaze. There wasn’t much to be said after that, so the brunette leaned forward till their lips crushed together in a rather ungainly second kiss, but it was good. Steve inhaled sharply at the feeling of Bucky’s lips against his, dry and warm and a little soft. After the few moments it took him to overcome a bout of shock, Steve’s eyes slid shut, and he pressed back into the kiss, giving as much as he was getting. 

Bucky took that as a good sign. Slipping his hands into Steve’s shirt now that the buttons were undone, he let his hands rest against his friend’s stomach, feeling his taught muscles, and the warmth that permeated through his undershirt. Slowly, carefully almost, Bucky parted his lips, and waited mere seconds for Steve to do the same, and the blond responded in kind. For a few moments they breathed each other in, both sighing slightly, gasping softly, and before long Bucky made a move again, his tongue flicking out between his lips to lap at Steve’s. 

Inhaling deeply, the blond opened his mouth further for his friend, his hands coming up to clutch at Bucky’s biceps, his shoulders, anything that would keep him grounded, for he found his head was already floating. When the wet of Bucky’s tongue touched his own, somewhere in the space between their mouths, Steve gave a full-bodied shudder and tugged his friend close. He’d never really felt Bucky so close against him, never really felt under his hands all that sinewy, lean muscle that he’d always admired from afar. It was good, so good to finally, _finally!_ have him here. Closer, safe, where Steve could touch him. 

The kiss and it’s relative chasteness unraveled after that, into a rather uncouth battle of tongues and teeth and lips and gasped lungfuls of air in between. Bucky’s hands, both flesh and blood and metal alike came up to twine in Steve’s soft blond hair, tugging gently on the silken strands. He found that Steve was a good kisser, no doubt having had plenty of practice with that girl back in New York, whose name he couldn’t remember. It didn’t really matter now, though, as Bucky grew a little bolder and let his teeth skim over Steve’s soft bottom lip. He felt the blond shudder at the gesture, but nothing more. 

It was Bucky who took a step back, arms draped around his friend’s shoulders now, where Steve held him around his ribs, tight like some sort of child’s stuffed animal. Another step back, and Bucky could feel the doubled-up blanket under his heel, so he pulled away from the kiss a fraction of an inch, his lips still touching Steve’s. 

“Down,” He whispered, voice little more than a rasping breath. Steve nodded, one arm uncurling from around Bucky’s back, where the other held him tighter, and he began to kneel, taking Bucky with him. Catching both of their weight on his extended arm, Steve lowered them both to the floor, half on, half off the makeshift bed of blankets. Somewhere on their way to the floor, the kiss hand broken, and Bucky looked up at Steve with all the reverie and affection he had for his friend, a feeling swelling in his chest so big he thought he might burst to pieces there and then. Steve stared back at him, too, his features orange and pale in the fire’s light. 

They spent a long time, or what felt like a long time, looking at each other, taking in every bit they hadn’t got to memorize in the last ten, fifteen years about one another’s faces. Steve was much the same, though his cheeks weren’t so hollow, and his hair was pushed back differently from when they’d been boys. Bucky looked hardened, scars standing out only in the glow of the fire, white against the rest of his tanned face, and as usual, his jaw was stubbled and rough. Steve could still feel the sting of it against his chin and cheeks, and wanted to feel it again. 

Slowly, he leaned down to kiss Bucky once more, picking up exactly where they left off, open-mouthed and graceless. It was good though, perfect really, and oddly befitting. As Steve had thought the first time they’d kissed, it simply felt _right,_ and he wondered how many other things in his life felt so _in place._ Like a puzzle or a lock, he has slipped in, right where he should have been, here with Bucky clinging to him, hands in Steve’s hand again. 

For quite a while, they were both fine with kissing this way, though it grew a bit desperate, and Bucky’s hands began to wander, tug and push and pull at Steve’s clothes, his shoulders. Pulling away, the blond drew in a few breaths, and swallowed hard, shifting his weight to his right hand, after so long supporting himself on his left. 

Bucky’s hands skimmed down over Steve’s neck, to his firm chest, and down further to his stomach, along which he dragged his finger tips. Their final destination whats the button on Steve’s trousers, and as he laid his hand there, Bucky looked up at his friend. 

“Can I um...” He inhaled deeply, out of breath from all the kissing, and his lips slick from it too, “Can I touch you? I - god, I’ve been dying to, you’re so - “ He stopped, voice breaking around a moan as he shifted up onto one elbow and stretched up a little further till he could press a few light, wet kisses along the thick column of Steve’s neck. The blond shivered imperceptibly, though here in front of the fire, it was too warm. 

“Yes,” was all he managed to gasp out in response, wholly wrapped up in the thought of Bucky’s hand on him, the plush feel of lips and tongue at his neck. 

Bucky made quick work of the button on Steve’s trousers, pushing them open and down with one very dexterous hand (his flesh and blood hand, to be exact). He did the same with Steve’s underclothes, tugging at the edge of those as well, but before he could get his hand _in-_

“Wait, wait, let me, I want - um,” Steve stammered, sitting back and up so abruptly it made Bucky’s head spin. He blinked at his friend, but understood when the blond looked down to Bucky’s trousers shyly. 

“Oh,” He breathed, and smiled wistfully thereafter, “Of course.” There was a laugh in his voice at that, and his hands flew to his trouser buttons, undoing them as fast, if not faster than he’d done with Steve’s, then pushed both his trousers and shorts halfway down his legs. 

Steve just stared, his face flushed, lips parted and glistening. Bucky laughed again, and palmed his half-hard cock, beckoning lazily to his friend with the other. Steve moved over him again, careful that his weight didn’t crush Bucky where it mattered. 

“‘t’s okay,” The brunette whispered, pulling down on the hem of Steve’s underclothes again, “You can...get close.” Gently, because he knew how unsure his friend was, Bucky reached in and touched Steve’s cock, also nearly hard, with his fingertips, then his palm with a gentle pressure. Steve let out a heavy sigh, eyes falling closed as his hips twitched toward Bucky’s hand. Curling his fingers around his friend’s length, Bucky began to stroke slowly, grip loose, but still firm, eyes focused on Steve’s face above him. 

“Bucky,” He breathed, voice trembling and breaking, but it sounded so beautiful, made Bucky smile. 

“You gonna touch me, or what?” The brunette managed to quip, though how, while he was looking up at Steve, he wasn’t sure. Opening his eyes, Steve looked a little bewildered at first, and, glancing at Bucky, he looked down between them where Bucky’s cock curved up toward his belly. Though he was a bit intrepid at first when he wrapped his hand around Bucky, his big, square, _warm_ hand, he slowly seemed to get the hang of it, stroking just as he would himself. That seemed the easiest way, anyhow, and when he looked down at Bucky, it seemed to be quite alright with him; the brunette’s eyes hand fallen shut, lips parted though there was still a trace of a smile on them. 

Bucky’s hand on Steve’s cock tightened slightly, his grip and strokes becoming more purposeful. Steve bucked into the touch eagerly, because though he gave himself relief when he really needed it, it was _nothing_ compared to this. Bucky just touching him like this, his palm and fingers worn rough with callouses, felt spectacular, better than that even, and with no small amount of embarrassment, Steve realized this wouldn’t last long. 

“B-Bucky I’m not - I can’t...for long - “ He stuttered, his hand stilling on Bucky’s length. Lifting his head, the brunette looked up at him, eyes glazed and bright from the flames in the hearth, a small smile on his lips. 

“Me either. Come down here, it’s okay,” He murmured, curling his free hand around the back of Steve’s neck, pulling him down into a kiss, and to rest his weight over Bucky. He was glad to find he could still move his hand this way, and as Bucky brushed his thumb over the leaking tip of Steve’s cock, smearing precome around a bit, the blond moaned into his friends mouth, “Ah, there we are.” Bucky whispered, a wry smile on his lips in the moments between their kisses.

He too began to pump his fist around Bucky with more fervor, quite eager to see his face when he came, hear the noises he made. Steve had never really been an overtly sexual person, not even with Peggy, but with Bucky, he could already feel that the case was different. There weren’t secrets between them, no matter how many years and miles there were; they still knew each other like the back of one another’s hand, and now they knew each other like this. It was almost a relief. 

As their tongues curled together slowly, Steve let his hips thrust into the circle of Bucky’s fingers, jerky, aborted movements, but it felt good none the less, coupled with the pass of Bucky’s thumb over the tip of his cock here and there. He emulated the motion for his friend, and it made the brunette gasp. 

“‘t’s good,” Bucky sighed, neck arching a little as he closed his eyes. With a rather pathetic whimper, Steve’s hips jerked forward again, a bolt of familiar pleasure running through him in a tell-tale way. He licked his lips before pressing them along the expanse of Bucky’s neck, and there were scars here too, scars Steve didn’t want to know the origin of, “Faster, Steve.” Bucky gasped suddenly, and after glancing up at his friend, he sped up his strokes, stripping the other man’s cock in his now slick hand. 

Of course, Bucky did the same thing, and all too quickly Steve could feel the tightening in his sac that told him he was close, so close to the edge, and he let out another cry, one very nearly torn from him. 

“Bucky,” His voice broke pathetically as his hips surged forward again, and all too quickly he could feel it, there, right there, coiling and springing and _releasing._ Another desperate moan was wrenched from his lips as Steve’s orgasm crested, made his whole body tense and twitch lightly as wave after wave of sweet, hot pleasure surged through him, spilling over Bucky’s fingers. 

It took what felt like forever for Steve to recover, for the room to stop spinning and for his vision to clear of the little black dots that spotted his vision. He felt absolutely drained then, all his muscles jelly or worse, and he’d all but slumped against Bucky, face buried in the warm skin of his friend’s neck. Distantly, feeling returned to him, Bucky’s hand combing through his hair, stubbled roughness against his cheek. With a sigh, Steve pushed himself up on his free elbow, and looked down at Bucky. 

“Sorry um...” He began, voice too quiet. His friend laughed. 

“Don’t be. But uh. Would you mind?” He nodded down at where Steve still had a hold of his cock. The blond smiled, and probably would have blushed if he wasn’t already flushed from head to toe, and leaned in to kiss Bucky again, slow and sweet as his hand began to move again. The kiss didn’t last long though, for as Steve moved his hand quicker and quicker, Bucky’s lips were parting with soft gasps and sighs, though he made no other sounds. He was quiet, and kept his eyes on Steve’s as the blond touched him. 

When Bucky came shortly afterward, it was without fan fare, his eyes snapping shut at the last moment, whole body tensing and arching off the floor just the slightest bit, his release stifled by Steve’s fingers, though a few stray drops landed on his belly. After that, Bucky just tried to catch his breath, staring up at Steve all the while. It was nice. The fire cracked, and the wind whistled outside, snow hit the window panes, but there it was warm, a little too warm, but nice. Slowly, they moved away from another, both a bit of a mess, but Steve more so. 

“I’m um...going to go wash up,” He waved his hand that was covered with Bucky’s release a bit awkwardly, and pushed himself up from the floor, a little unsteady on his feet. Bucky watched him go with no small amount of awe, shifting his elbows out from under him to lay back on his makeshift bed of blankets, sighing heavily. Carefully, he tucked himself back into his trousers before closing his eyes, and trying to absorb what exactly had just happened, the evidence still cooling on his hand and stomach. How many times had he dreamed of that? Of how Steve would look and sound and taste and feel. How he’d fill Bucky’s senses to the brim with that golden _presence_ of his, because that was how it had always felt; gold and yellow and warm like the sun, or the fire Bucky was basking in. 

Inhaling deeply, Bucky smiled and moved himself up to stretch out on his meager bed, tucking his clean hand behind his head as he looked up at the ceiling to watch shadows dance across it. He was beginning to feel sleepy, lulled by the light and the warmth, but when Steve returned with a wet rag, he woke up a bit, glancing over as his friend walked into the room again. Bucky wasn’t quite sure what to do, get up or sit down, so he pulled himself into a sitting position, and wormed back so Steve had space to sit on the blankets. 

“Why don’t-.....why don’t you come..upstairs. I mean, it’s warmer up there, and you can bring the blankets. I just figure-” Steve began quietly, shrugging and shifting the rag between his left and right hand. With a light laugh, Bucky pushed himself up to stand, grinning at his friend. 

“You askin’ me into bed with you Steve?” He murmured, looking up at the blond as he plucked the rag from his hand. Steve’s cheeks were flushed dark, probably form both the activity and the question he’d just asked. He shrugged anyway, and cocked a very lopsided smile at Bucky. 

“Sure. It’s only proper, I suspect,” Steve replied, smile turning very soft and fond, easy. At that, Bucky just grinned, and the blond silently stepped around his friend. Without so much a backwards glance at Bucky to make sure if he was following, Steve made his way to and up the stairs to his bedroom. A few moments later, he could hear the steps creaking under Bucky’s weight as he climbed them after his friend. 

 

Steve’s bedroom was small, much like the rest of the house, and dark, the lantern on his bedside table running low already. Across the room from his bed that looked to small to fit even him, tucked up in the left corner, was his dresser, atop of which sat a wash basin and small shaving kit. Going to his dresser, Steve set the rag in the basin, and turned back to Bucky, who lingered in the doorway, staring at the bed. Unsure of just about everything in that moment, even what they had just done, Steve sighed heavily, rubbing his palms against his trousers, before stepping forward. 

“Really Steve, where’m I supposed to sleep?” Bucky asked, clearly teasing, but his voice was a bit...quiet, tight perhaps. Steve understood though; this was strange. They’d slept together plenty, hell they’d been doing it their whole lives, but now it was different. Things had shifted. 

“You can go back downstairs. I won’t be offended,” The blond said, staring at his friend. 

“No, I don’t - don’t want to. It’s alright.” Bucky’s hands moved to the hem of his trousers again, making to pull them down. Stepping back a bit, and following suite, Steve shrugged out of his flannel shirt. It felt odd, somehow, and a little tense, as Steve too pushed at his trousers, watching them pool around his feet. Being with Bucky that way had never been a possibility, and even then he had always been under the impression that it was terribly, horribly wrong to be with another man like this. But nothing about what they had done, there in front of the fire, felt wrong. Wrong had never even occurred to him. 

Left in his underclothes, Steve folded his shirt and trousers and placed them on the dresser, before turning back to Bucky, who sat perched on the edge of his bed. He was looking out the window to the right of Steve’s bed, where the storm swirled and howled against the glass pane. Swallowing thickly, Steve stepped over to the bed and sat down so he was in his friend’s line of sight. Bucky’s eyes shifted to him, and for a few moments, he just stared. 

“Is this okay?” He asked quietly, in his slightly abrupt way. A small frown wrinkled Steve’s brow for no particular reason, but he nodded anyhow. 

“Of course Bucky,” The blond responded, brow furrowing a bit deeper, “I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t.” He let a small, what he hoped was reassuring smile play on his lips, and Bucky nodded as he began to shift back onto the bed. Steve merely watched as his friend pulled himself back, settling on the left side of the bed, against the wall, and tried to make himself as small as possible to make room for Steve. That made him smile, and he made to lay down as well, pulling up the thick winter quilt to slide his feet under, and for Bucky to do the same. Already they were nearly pressed chest to chest when Bucky moved to slip under the coverlet as well, and when they both settled against the thin mattress, they both seemed to gravitate closer. 

“You ever do this with that lady of yours back home?” Bucky asked quietly, tucking his metallic hand under his cheek on the pillow they shared. Steve had only told, and talked to Bucky about Peggy once, and in very little detail. Licking his lips, and shifting his head on the pillow till his nose nearly touched Bucky’s, Steve pulled his quilt up a bit higher till it rested over his ribs. 

“Do what, exactly?” He smiled subtly, as he looked over his friend’s face in the dim light of the room. Bucky shrugged. 

“This. _That.”_ His voice dipped a little low when he said the latter, and his eyes flickered down and to the right, toward the door. Steve’s eyebrows raised a bit, and he inhaled deeply. 

“This. Not - much,” He exhaled with a breathy laugh, “Peggy was a good lady, and I wasn’t going to push it, because I never...I don’t know, a proper man waits, I guess,” At that, Bucky raised his eyebrows, “For a lady, I mean. For marriage, and I knew I wasn’t going to marry her.” 

“No?” Bucky asked, sounding rather shocked, “I thought you loved her.” 

A silence settled over them then, for a few moments as Steve thought that over. 

“Not like this,” He murmured, and then it was Bucky’s turn to pause and think. He swallowed as he stared at Steve, unsure how to respond to that. 

“And what’s ‘this’?” When he finally spoke, his voice was as even and calm as ever, though Steve knew he was a bit unsure. 

“I love you,” Steve blurted, before he had time to think of what he was actually going to respond with, “I suppose compared to you, what I had for her was - it wasn’t less. It just um,” He stopped, frowning again as he looked down between them, at the quilt, at nothing, “Pales in comparison to what I feel now.” 

A slow smile spread over Bucky’s face, but he remained quiet, simply grinning at Steve like an idiot. 

“And I’ve never loved anyone else, so I don’t have anything to compare this to. I just know that more often than not it hurts, especially when you’re not around,” A sudden frown passed over his expression then, like he hadn’t expected it, “But I know it’s not always like that, so I suppose I only have the feeling of having you here, and not. Still, it’s the same, I guess.” 

“I’d say so.” Steve said quietly, smiling a bit as he raised a cautious hand, and placed it against Bucky’s cheek. It was such an unimaginable relief to have this, as strange and new as it was, to be able to touch Bucky and have him close, to talk like this. To be honest about this for once. 

“Put that arm around me instead,” Bucky said gruffly, bumping his elbow to Steve’s. The blond complied, draping his arm over his friend’s ribs, and hugging him close till they were pressed flush together from shoulder to hip. And oh how nice it was, the feeling of Bucky’s body against his, and really being able to really feel it, feel the rise and fall of his chest. Steve sighed, “I’m never gonna get used to this big ole body of yours.” 

Steve smiled. “I hope you do. ‘t’s the only one I got.” 

“Be quiet, you know what I mean. It didn’t make you any smarter, did it?” Bucky shot back, cocking one eyebrow. 

“I’m a sight smarter th-”

Bucky interrupted Steve with a kiss, hard at first, but then gentle, like the one they’d shared not an hour ago, before tumbling to the floor. Steve sighed into it, eyelids fluttering shut as he gripped the soft material of Bucky’s shirt at his back. This time, Bucky wasted no time in parting his lips to let his tongue slide between them, touching the tip of it to Steve’s lips, inquiring softly. Of course the blond obliged, lips parting for his friend as the kiss deepened. 

It was slow, unlike last time, and easy now that they were familiar with the feel of one another. Steve let himself get lost in the smooth warmth of Bucky’s tongue, his lips, and the way they moved against his own. It was a good sort of kiss, one Steve was going to think about for the next year or two before Bucky came back, and gave him more to remember. Of course, he’d do the same with that whole night, even Bucky in the tub. 

He could have very well kissed Bucky till both of their lips were blue, but the brunette pulled away with a soft gasp, panting a bit as he looked at Steve. His hands, both warm, but one slightly harder than the other, had reached out to Steve and were petting at him restlessly, one at his shoulder and the other his waist. 

“Steve,” He whispered finally, eyes a looking little wide, frantic maybe. 

“What?” The blond gripped Bucky a bit tighter to him, arm tight around Bucky’s waist. 

“Please, I want to go back up North,” He murmured, swallowing a bit as his blue eyes, dim again in the lamplight, flickered over Steve’s face, “I’m damn sick of the mountains, scrabbling around cliffs and nothing to see for miles except shrub oak. The cold makes me ache, and I’m tired of the dry air I’m - god, I’m tired of it all. Tired a riding that damn horse, good as she is, and I’m sick of tents, I’m done Steve.” 

For a while, Steve was silent, and a subtle frown furrowed his brow. “...Okay...Stop, then. I told you, you can stay here...with me I mean - “

“No, that isn’t what I mean,” Bucky’s hand dropped from Steve’s shoulder, to the collar of his shirt, where he bunched his fist, “I want you to come with me. I wanna go home.” 

Again there was a lengthy pause as Steve considered it. His last memory of New York was a sunny day, and Peggy was dressed in a navy blue dress with pinstripes, her thick brown hair all pinned up, and she looked so pretty when she smiled, then kissed him goodbye. He’d tipped his hat and shouldered his bag, before turning away to make his way down the street.  

“I - ....I’m sure one day I can go back, when I’m not needed out here.” He said cautiously, unsure how Bucky would react. 

“No Steve I - I want us to go tomorrow. Just leave the mountains behind, make a clean break and just go home together. I miss having you with me all the time, I miss - “ He stopped, chuckling a bit, “I miss your boney little body tucked up against mine in a tent somewhere in the Carolinas. I know you’re not tiny and boney anymore, but you’re not so different. I just - ...I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t running from all the stuff I’ve done. Because I am. I mean, I know that I’ve done some less than honorable things, but I’m sick of doing it.” 

Again, Steve had to pause and absorb what Bucky had said, and he understood. Bucky wanted a new life, and a new life with Steve. 

“And what is everyone gonna think about two fellas living together, huh? Making a home together in New York?” He asked softly, expression slightly pained as he brought his hand up to rest against Bucky’s neck. The brunette shrugged. 

“Don’t give a rat’s ass. As long as they don’t give us trouble, I don’t give a damn what anyone says. And if they do trouble you, or me - “

“Bucky,” Steve stopped his friend, knowing what he was probably going to say, “You aren’t going to shoot anyone who - “

A smile broke out over Bucky’s face, “Hey I wasn’t going to say I would shoot anyone,” He said with a laugh, however quiet it is, “Just maybe rough ‘em up a bit, like the boys back in school.” He gave Steve a wink, and the blond just sighed a bit. 

“Buck, you know I c - “

“Stop, Steve, come on, stop it. You trust me don’t you? Or you trusted me once,” Bucky looked hopeful, eyes wide as they bored into Steve’s. 

“With my life,” The blond nodded solemnly against his pillow. 

“Trust me again. With this, please.” Bucky murmured, tone too fervent for Steve to ignore. The blond sighed, feeling something clenching tight in his chest, like a fist. 

“It’s going to take time, Bucky,” He said finally, after a while, “I’ll need to...try and sell the house, or at very least have someone who can take care of it, and maybe Thor - “

“No, Steve, let’s go in the morning. It’ll be easiest that way, won’t it? And Thor can come, even if I have to sling him over the mare’s back,” A little smile played on Bucky’s lips, but there was something off, a desperate edge to it. 

“Bucky what’s gotten into you? I can’t just up and leave tomorrow morning. Hell, we’d need food and money, and about a hundred other things.” He was inclined to just forget the idea altogether, the way Bucky was talking about it. Of course the brunette just laughed. 

“I’m a criminal remember. I’ve <i>got</i> money. I’ve got dozens, Steve, and I could get us to New York. I told you you’ve gotta trust me,” His voice dropped low, and lost its playful note with his last statement. 

“What’s your hurry?” Steve murmured, bringing his hand up to touch Bucky’s cheek again. He ran his thumb over the brunettes sharp cheekbone, his other fingers then skimming over the sharp, stubbled line of his jaw. It was nice to just feel for a while, and Bucky seemed to like it, face turning into Steve’s palm slightly, eyes slipping closed. 

“Like I said, I’m a criminal. A _fugitive_ as far as your friends are concerned, so the sooner we leave the better, wouldn’t you think?” When he opened his eyes again to focus on Steve, they were a bit soft, still warm in the waning lamplight. 

“Can we drop this, please - “

“Yes. But sleep on it. I’ll be ready to go before dawn anyhow just.... I want you to be with me when I do.” Bucky’s face softened all over when he said that, brows drawing up and together slightly as he gave Steve a small smile. The blond simply sighed deeply, and brushed his hand back into Bucky’s hair, petting, feeling its clean softness. Bucky just closed his eyes and leaned into it, looking, not only lovely, but quite....blissful. 

 

They weren’t awake for too much longer, but for a little while, they talked quietly about nothing in particular, the snow outside and what it’d be like tomorrow. Somewhere, between drifting hands, and drooping eyelids, they drifted off to sleep. It was so seamless, so easy falling asleep next to Bucky, all tangled up with him in his tiny bed, it was like floating into unconsciousness. He was so sure he’d fallen asleep with a smile on his face, the tip of his nose brushing Bucky’s, their arms locked tight around one another. Steve didn’t dream, and it felt so good, always having Bucky’s warmth there when he moved, all around him. 

In the morning, Bucky shifting was what woke Steve, a small shift of his shoulders, and his hand at the back of Steve’s neck. The blond opened his eyes, slow and a bit reluctant at first, but the room was dark, a little blue from the sun rising outside. For a few moments, mind still bleary with sleep, Steve stared at Bucky, and Bucky stared right back at him, but he seemed to be a little more aware. There was a subtle smile teasing at the corners of his lips, and his blinking was as quick as ever. 

They didn’t say much, just kissed again, both of their lips and cheeks cool from the slight chill in the air, but they warmed up quick. Still silent, they crawled from the warm sanctuary of Steve’s tiny bed and pulled on their clothes again, doing so quickly. As he looked out the window, buttoning up his thick fleece, Steve gazed out the window at the chilly blue dawn, the sky still thick with winter storm clouds. It wouldn’t be a good day for riding, not with that cold and the wind from the valley whipping across your face. 

Though Steve gave it no more thought than he had last night, and he said nothing to Bucky when he went downstairs, he began to pack a rucksack full of clothes. He didn’t really even think about what he was doing, just pulled the ties of the bag, and slung it over his shoulder. Downstairs, Bucky was fully dressed, hat and coat and all, save for the boots he was pulling on his feet. He looked up at Steve as he tromped down the stairs, and set his bag by the front door, taking from his coat from where it hung on the wall. Bucky just smiled and tied up his boots before standing. 

In the kitchen, Steve packed a few things in one of Bucky’s bags; a few biscuits from the night previous, jam, and a few small potatoes. It wouldn’t get them far, but Bucky assured him he had the means to get them food and drink and maybe even a motel on their way. Why Steve was even going along with this, why he thought this was a good idea, he had no idea, but he just couldn’t help but _want_ to leave with Bucky, go anywhere and more with him. Or he just didn’t want to let Bucky go, not again. 

Not long later Bucky looked out the kitchen window where the sun was just reaching the horizon, making the sky a brighter grey, though blue still lingered in the West. 

“We need to go,” Bucky said, his voice calm, but stern, and there was a frown on his face that Steve found odd. He was making it sound like this was urgent. He took his LeMat revolver from it’s holster to check the cylinder, before spinning and shutting it again. Steve, of course, had to wonder why, what difference it made, but he himself had his gunbelt too, so he kept quiet. Shaking off the odd feeling that had given him, Steve nodded, and Bucky slung his saddlebags over his shoulders as they made for the door. 

It was cold and dry, a gentle wind blowing in from the west, and there were about six inches of snow on the ground. All in all, pretty unpleasant riding conditions, but no doubt the snow and the cold were worse here at the foot of the mountains. In the barn, Bucky tacked the mare quickly, his motions jerky and quick, but thorough after so many years of having to do this quickly. Steve did the same, and noticed it made Loki a bit nervous, but by the time Steve swung up into the saddle, he was alright. 

Thor, who had been laying in the barn’s doorway stood quickly and started barking, just as Steve and Bucky made their way to the door. Steve was first, and atop Loki, he could see just what had Thor up and barking; a few figures were making their way down the ridge, and they were fairly recognizable from here. Behind him, Bucky gasped and cursed, moving the mare up next to Loki, who whickered. 

“Steve, _go._ ” He kept his voice quiet and eyes fixed on the people approaching. Steve could make out Sam and his horse, and what might have been Clint. But something about this felt wrong, the tone of Bucky’s voice, it was wrong. They knew, they knew somehow and they had come for both of them. 

Steve kicked at Loki, who bolted, kicking up mud in his wake. He registered the wallop of the mare’s heels behind him as Bucky caught up with him, and they both rounded the barn, making for the wide open space behind Steve’s home. Behind them someone yelled, and a chorus of hoofbeats followed, all in close pursuit. This was bad, this was wrong, what the hell was happening?

Panicked, Steve looked over his left shoulder. There was Bucky, close by at Loki’s left flank. His face was stern, focused and angry, maybe. Further behind him, Sam, Clint, and Bruce were close, spread out to overtake Steve and Bucky if they caught up. Steve turned back, snapped Loki’s reigns, and kicked him again, spurring the horse into a dead sprint. Again he looked over at Bucky, finding him right at his side and reaching for his Colt this time, and twisting in his saddle. 

“BUCKY, NO!” Steve roared, over the wind and thunder of hooves, but it was no use. Bucky fired off a shot, then another, though he stopped at two, for he knew the value of bullets in a fight, and he was in no position to reload. Yet then, more shots cracked in the air, and Steve moved his hand to his own revolver, however reluctantly. 

“STEVE,” Someone behind them hollered, though he couldn’t make out who ,”GIVE IT UP!” 

Steve looked over at Bucky, who hand turned again, firing at their pursuants. There was a thud, and a clamor, and Steve knew his friend had hit one of his marks. He tried not to think of his friends, hoping it hadn’t been Sam. 

There was a brief pause in the gunfire from their backs, and Steve glanced over at Bucky once again, and his friend returned the look, if only briefly. The shots echoed around them again in quick succession, and all of a sudden, a sharp, terrible pain was blooming in Steve’s chest, too hot compared to the blisteringly cold wind that whipped at his face. He paid it little mind, eyes focused on the horizon where a copse of trees barely poked up against the grey-blue of the morning clouds, dark against the snow. 

Another point of white hot pain registered in Steve, and he looked down at himself, watching red seep across the flannel of his shirt above a patch that was already soaked with red. He raised a hand to the center of his chest, just a few inches shy of his heart, and pressed, feeling the warmth of his own blood sticky on his fingers. It was quiet, he noted then too, quiet and slow, things were moving slow, oddly slow, where Loki had been sprinting so fast.

 

 

 

Bucky was screaming, screaming himself hoarse at Steve, trying to get him to look at him, anything to stay upright and in his saddle, but he was already beginning to sag. In desperation, he focused a shot at one of the horse’s behind him and fired, clipping it’s shoulder to send it staggering. That’d be enough, he thought, and he holstered his gun to pull on the mare’s reigns hard to the left. 

“Steve!” He called desperately, reaching out with his metal hand to try and grasp at his friend. His fingers brushed at Steve’s jacket, but at the pace they were riding, he couldn’t get a good grip. Another desperate glance over his shoulder let him know they were no longer being followed, so he spurred the mare a bit now that Loki wasn’t galloping as fast. They wove in front of the black horse, stopping him in his tracks and making him buck a bit as he whinnied. 

Steve was limp in his saddle, head and arms hanging a bit haplessly as Bucky moved the mare up along side Loki and his friend. “Steve,” He called desperately, reaching out to clutch at Steve’s shoulder with his flesh and blood hand, while the other pressed against the blond’s chest, trying to get him a bit more upright, “Hey, look at me pal, come on,” His fingers curled and pulled at Steve’s coat, trying to get him to lift his head. 

With a quiet, almost shuddering gasp Steve...moved, at very least, hands curling and uncurling around the reigns still in them. Seconds later, he blinked, and as he did he lifted his head, lips parting. A little trickle of blood spilled out from between them, and Steve raised a trembling hand as if to stifle it, but his hand fell again before he could. Bucky’s eyes widened in horror, and he cursed under his breath again, and looked over his shoulder at the horizon they’d been riding toward. 

“Steve, look at me, can you - can you look at me?” He panted, shifting the reigns in his hand, before he stood up in his own saddle. Steve could, his head tilted up again till he was looking at Bucky, blue eyes cool and clear as ever. With a lot of maneuvering, Bucky moved from the mare’s saddle, to sit behind Steve in Loki’s, though it was a tight, awkward fit.

“Gonna take care of you Steve it’s - “ Bucky reached around his friend to take Loki’s reigns, and pressed up tighter against the blond’s back, “‘t’s okay.” 

That was a blatant lie, but Bucky had never been an honest man. At least not for some time. He kicked Loki gently, and the horse startled into a trot. Where the hell they were going to go, Bucky had no idea, but they couldn’t turn back, because they’d most likely lock him up, take him away from Steve again. 

It was his fault, anyway, maybe he should have turned back and let them hang him in some god awful mountain town. He figured he deserved it now, if he ever thought he had. It wouldn’t have been hard to tell Steve what Sam had told _him_ yesterday in the jail, the warning he gave Bucky. There would have been plenty of time, but instead he figured it’d be best not to let Steve know; they head east and no one would be none the wiser, but when had Bucky’s plans ever worked out the way he wanted? It was risky, even for him. He should have simply told Steve. 

Then again, knowing him and his fool head, he would’ve gone and turned himself in. Steve was never a fighter, at least not when it came what was _right_. He wouldn’t put up a fight, because he’d broken the law, when his job was to uphold it. 

It didn’t really matter now, though, did it, what either of them would do. 

As he rode toward a small cluster of trees, Bucky could feel the warmth and the damp of Steve’s blood seeping into his shirt. It made him sick, and as he and the horses, the mare trotting alongside Loki obediently, reached the trees, Bucky swung down from his saddle. The snow was deeper here, but thinned out through the trees, so it was a decent place to make camp until Bucky could assess just what he was dealing with in Steve’s injuries. He’d done his fair amount of patching up injuries on the fly, and Steve was big now, it’d take more than a bullet to kill him. Bucky hoped. 

Somehow, he helped his friend down from the saddle, but as Steve slid from it, his foot caught in the stirrup, and though Bucky was there to catch him, it sent them both stumbling. Steve gained his feet somehow, enough so his friend could help him into the safety of the densely spaced trees. Far enough in, Bucky stopped where the ground was still a bit dry, and the branches of pine trees, heavy with snow, hung over their heads. 

“Alright, Steve, hey, I’m - you sit down here, while I go back for the horses, okay?” Bucky said, turning to look up at his friend. The blond nodded weakly, and so his friend ducked out from under his shoulder, and helped ease him to the ground, up against the trunk of a pine, “You’re alright, huh? Can you - can you answer me?” Bucky was out of breath, but he smiled as he crouched in front of Steve, and reached out to pat his friend’s cheek. 

He struggled with it for a moment, lips pressing together, but Steve managed a sigh, and smiled at Bucky. “Yeah,” He breathed, voice thick and distinctly wet, and there was filling between his teeth. Bucky smiled back at him, though he felt like doing quite the opposite, before venturing back through the trees. 

When he reached the mare, he stopped for a moment, and began to heave. It was dry though, so moments later he stood and took both Loki and his own horse by the reigns to lead them into the thicket of trees. He left them just outside the small ring of trees he’d picked out, and went to check on Steve again, before going back to untack the horses. They’d need the saddle blankets, and the contents of Bucky’s bags if they were going to stay for very long. 

“How’re you feeling? I gotta move you, Steve, gotta take a look at you,” Bucky breathed, as he sunk to his knees next to his friend with a saddle blanket, an extra shirt, and his knife in hand. 

“Oh I’m fine,” Steve breathed, his lips sticking together as his blood began to dry on them, and he attempted another smile. It faltered and fell when Bucky moved him closer, coaxing him to lay down on the blanket he’d brought. Fresh blood welled up in the wounds, and Bucky could see two, then, as he pushed back the sides of Steve’s jacket. He reached out with shaking hands to unbutton Steve’s shirt, though he had to cut away the undershirt beneath that. 

The first thing he noted was simply all the blood, pumping out from two holes in Steve’s torso each time he took a shallow breath. One was right in the middle of his chest, just below his sternum and shy of his heart, while the other was lower, in his left side. 

“How’s it look?” Steve asked, words a bit garbled, and Bucky didn’t have the strength to look up at his friend. 

“Fine,” He said, shaking his head as he tore a sleeve off of his shirt, “Fine, you’re going to be fine. Just gotta get you clean and patched up,” He added, glancing up to Steve’s face, which was a terrible idea. He was pale, and there was blood running from his mouth again, though in one clean line, and Bucky couldn’t bear to see that, “You had worse when we were kids.” He chuckled, though it was absolutely humorless, and tight.

Getting Steve cleaned up was a longer process that it should have been; Bucky needed a fire to boil water, and with the wet needles, that was hard enough. The wait for the water nearly killed him, and he had to keep looking back at Steve to make sure he was breathing, blinking, still giving Bucky a small, reassuring smile. And how backwards that was, Steve consoling Bucky when he was the one dying. 

No, he wasn’t dying, he couldn’t die, Bucky wouldn’t _let_ him, not when it was his fault. 

When the water had boiled, Bucky dipped a shred of his shirt in it, and began to clean around the wounds, making sure those, at least, were clean before he bandaged them up. He wrung the bloody cloth out on the ground, and made sure to wipe at Steve’s mouth, his cheek where some red had been smeared. Then, Bucky made a quick compress of half a shirt, pressing it tight to Steve’s wounds to stay the bleeding as he helped his friend sit up. 

It wasn’t easy, getting the rest of the scraps of his shirt wound around Steve’s torso, but he tied it good and tight, so it was enough to keep him from bleeding out right away. When that was done, there wasn’t much else to do. They couldn’t keep moving, not until Steve could even move by himself, or without blood bubbling up between his lips. So Bucky fed the fire, helping his friend move closer to it, and pulled Steve’s coat over his chest to make sure he stayed warm. 

After draping a blanket over the blond’s legs, Bucky had him shift up again, so his head could rest in Bucky’s lap. 

“Why didn’t you take me home?” Steve asked suddenly, eyes tilting back so he could look at Bucky’s face. His voice was soft, but startled his friend, and the brunette returned his gaze, hand settling on Steve’s shoulder. The question cut him deep, reminding him that he just kept making mistakes with Steve; he wasn’t good at taking care of him anymore. 

“They were still following us, Steve. I didn’t - didn’t want to turn around....if they caught you - “ Bucky just shook his head, because he had no decent answer for Steve, “Because I’m an idiot.” He chuckled, tight, as he looked away from Steve, not able to even look at his friend for the guilt. The blond was quiet for a while, eyes still fixed on Bucky.

He smiled. “No you’re not,” he croaked, voice a little raw and still quiet, but it was better that way, he needed to save his energy, “But we should - go back.” 

“What?” Frowning, Bucky looked to Steve again. 

“Go back home. It’s near,” And god, how small and boyish Steve sounded, like he was that sick kid back in the war. Sighing heavily, Bucky ran a hand over his face, and looked at Steve’s face as he thought that over. The blond just stared right back up at him, waiting, and the expression on his face was heartbreaking. 

“When the sun sets. I don’t...you’re probably not fit to ride. Or even walk for that matter. I was afraid they’d hang around because...” Bucky shook his head subtly, looking toward the fire, “Cause they knew we couldn’t get far.” 

Steve pressed his lips together, and averted his eyes as well. “Okay. When the sun sets.” He didn’t sound convinced. 

Another thick silence passed between them as Bucky kicked a foot out to rest his boot near the fire, while Steve turned his head to look at the flames. 

“You knew they were coming, didn’t you?” He asked softly. Bucky closed his eyes, and his pause was probably answer enough for Steve. The blond rubbed his fingers together, dried blood flaking off of them. 

“I did. I’m sorry,” Bucky’s hand wandered to Steve’s hair, smoothing it back from his forehead, before running his fingers through it. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, the blond let his eyes slip closed, which made Bucky frown and grip at his friend’s hair, “Hey, no, keep your eyes open. Talk to me.” 

“I’m sleepy. ‘nd it hurts.” Steve mumbled, a little frown wrinkling his brow. 

“Don’t go to sleep on me, Steve, come on. I’ll get you back home and I’ll get you better. Don’t shut your eyes,” Bucky said firmly, and his friend simply nodded, “Does it hurt to talk?” 

“A little.” Steve nodded a bit again, and Bucky sighed. 

“You’ve gotta stay awake, Steve. I’ll keep talking to you. Just...stay awake.” He felt panicked, like he wanted to shake Steve by the shoulders so he wouldn’t fall asleep. He had to do everything he could. Steve tilted his chin up to look at Bucky again. 

“I’m going to die anyway,” Another small, strained smile stretched over his lips, and Bucky’s gaze snapped to his friend. 

“No, Steve, d - “

“No, _you_ don’t,” Steve frowned deeper, and Bucky...well he didn’t know what to say, “I’m tired already. It’s okay. I’m alright with this if you’re here, okay?” 

“You’re going to b - “

“Bucky.” 

The brunette was drawn up short by the look Steve gave him, even at the odd angle. He didn’t know what to say. He sure as hell didn’t want to just _let_ Steve die, just let him close his eyes and slip away in some clearing not three miles from his own home. But he didn’t see what else he _could_ do. If Steve made it to nightfall, they could try to make it back to the house, but even then, they would have to go slow, and the motion of getting back on his horse would be hard for Steve. 

Bucky cursed himself a thousandth time, and closed his eyes, sighing deeply. He felt a hand on his wrist not moments later, and looked down at Steve, who had reached up to wrap his fingers around Bucky’s wrist. Steve just gave him a look, squeezed his wrist, and let go again. 

 

 

For several hours, they stayed in their makeshift camp that way, Bucky speaking every now and again with Steve, who replied when he could, and nodded when he couldn’t. Bucky would get up from time to time to check on the horses and get Steve water, propping his head up, and pouring little sips of it from his canteen. The blond had grown steadily more pale throughout the day, the pink slowly draining from his lips and cheeks. The cold didn’t help either, but Bucky tried to keep the fire big to keep them both warm. It was a dead giveaway for anyone looking for them, but Bucky figured if they hadn’t come yet, they never would. 

He was anxious by the time the sun began to set in the west, to either get Steve home or...well he didn’t know the alternative. Stay here another day, to make sure Steve was alright before moving on? If he had held on this long, he might be alright, but Bucky knew he couldn’t be sure of anything. 

When the sun went down, the fire lit up the trees around them in flickers of orange and yellow and red, spilling a circle of light around them both. Bucky had gone to stand out on the edge of the little copse of trees to stare through the dark, and see if he could glimpse any lights from Steve’s house. Instead it was like staring into a pond at night, there was nothing but black and stars and the quarter moon. He was still wary of leaving, and what the short ride back to the little house could to Steve, but the cold of the night would be just as, if not more deadly. 

Bucky made his way back to their “camp”, only to find Steve trying to rise up on one elbow, his other hand pushing at the ground to get him into a sitting position. Running to his friend’s side, Bucky knelt down next to Steve, hands on his back and shoulders. 

“What are you doing, hey, easy, easy,” He eased Steve back down onto the thick saddle blanket, and watched him sigh heavily, eyes squeezing shut. 

“Trying to - get u- “ Steve stopped, gritting and baring his teeth with what must have been pain. Bucky couldn’t do much but grip at the blond’s shoulders, pawing at them gently as he watched with some impending sense of horror. Steve wasn’t going anywhere. 

“Steve,” He prompted, trying to get his friend to speak to him. Steve breathed out harshly and his eyes focused on Bucky after a few moments, “You still want to go?” Bucky knew he couldn’t, but he’d leave the decision to Steve either way. The blond was silent for a while, eyes flickering to the trees above them. 

“I’m so tired, Bucky,” His voice was little more than a sigh when he did reply, “What if - we stay the night? And if I make it, we’ll go back.” He looked to his friend again, pale eyebrows arched. 

Bucky’s jaw clenched, and he nodded, settling down at Steve’s side, cross-legged. “Going to check these again, alright?” He said, motioning to Steve’s torso. The blond nodded, and Bucky reached out to push back his friend’s coat. 

The strips of cloth he had used to wrap Steve’s wounds were blooming with spots of red, slow, but still very vivid against the light blue of the fabric. Hurriedly, Bucky repeated the steps of bandaging and cleaning Steve’s wounds, making sure Steve was lucid the whole time, even though he was in pain. Once Bucky was finished, he buttoned Steve’s shirt up over the bandages, then pulled his coat tight over that to keep him from catching a chill, and sat down next to Steve in the dirt. 

“I think I’m going to um,” Steve started, his voice a little rough and still quiet, “Go to sleep now.” 

For a long time, Bucky held his gaze, knowing what that meant, and then nodded. 

“Okay. I’ll wake you in the morning,” He replied softly, and tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. His friend simply gave him a little smile and moved his hand to bump Bucky’s knee. 

“Lay down next to me, huh?” He mumbled, and immediately Bucky was moving, stretching out on his side next to Steve carefully, though still close against his uninjured side. With the fire on Steve’s other side, Bucky had a hard time seeing his face in the dark, but could still make out his smile. 

“Why are you smiling?” Bucky whispered, voice wavering already. There were tears in his eyes. 

“I don’t know, really,” Steve replied, laughing a little. Bucky couldn’t find it in him to do the same, and lifted a hand to his friend’s cheek before leaning in to kiss him. The blond made a soft sound in the back of his throat, but he pressed into the kiss with what little energy he had left, that much Bucky could feel. He pulled away moments later, sighing as he laid his head on Steve’s shoulder carefully. 

“I love you, you know that?” Bucky muttered, trying to keep his voice steady. 

“Love you too Buck,” His friend replied, and was silent. 

 

 

Somehow, maybe out of exhaustion or sheer need to be unconscious, Bucky fell asleep. It was a shallow, dreamless sleep that didn’t provide him much rest, so when the sun rose, and streamed through the trees, rays warm against Bucky’s face, he woke. The first thing he noted was the _cold._ He could barely move his fingers from where they’d curled in Steve’s jacket, and his nose, cheeks, and ears were numb. Looking up, he saw the fire had fizzled out, and his breath clouded in the frigid air, but the sun shone yellow, gold, and pink against the snow, glinted off the frozen dew in the trees and made everything look warm. Bucky managed to push himself up, shivering, and looked to Steve...

_Steve..._

His face was expressionless, peaceful as if he were still sleeping. Only his skin was bone pale, almost as white as the snow banked against the trees. It was terrifying, the way he looked. He could have been sleeping. 

“Steve...” Bucky murmured, voice breaking as he reached out to his friend’s shoulder, stiff fingers fisting the fabric of his coat, “Steve,” He raised his voice as if Steve could hear, and gave him a good shake. Nothing. 

Inhaling deeply, Bucky sat back and scraped a hand over his face. Again, or maybe still, there were tears in his eyes, too many, and they blurred his vision a little. He couldn’t simply...believe this, though, couldn’t reconcile the fact that Steve was gone with the need for him to be alive. Bucky reached out and slipped his hand into one of Steve’s and squeezed, squeezed hard. 

“Steve!” He shouted, too loud in the quiet that had settled around them in the trees. Somewhere, something stirred, one of the horses or a bird in the trees. Bucky’s face twisted in agony, and he let go of his friend’s hand, pushing the heels of his hands against his eyes as if he could keep the tears back that way. He choked on a sob anyway, and relented. 

Kneeling forward, Bucky buried his face against Steve’s shoulder, as another sob, and then another shook through him. His hands gripped blindly at Steve, his jacket, his hands, one rested against his cheek where he was cold, and a bit too firm. But that was just death, wasn’t it. 

“God I’m so sorry,” Bucky choked, sitting up after a few moments. His hands gravitated to Steve’s face again, and he stroked his thumbs over his friend’s cheekbones, “I’m sorry Steve, you should’ve - you should’ve never given me a - a chance. Just left me in that cell, I’d be better off dead instead of you,” Pressing his lips together, he tried to compose himself a little, and dragged the back of his hand across his eyes, “I’m so sorry...” He whispered, fingers still stroking over the cool skin of his friend’s face. 

Intrepidly, Bucky leaned forward till he could feel that coolness under his lips, and pressed a kiss to Steve’s forehead. He stared at Steve’s face for a while, sniffing and letting the last of his tears roll down his cheeks. What would he do now? Where would he go? Where _could_ he go? He had no idea where Natasha and the others were, and without Steve...

Without Steve, what would he do? 

For the first time in his short life, Bucky felt a crushing helplessness come over him. He was a criminal, a fugitive with no home, no real friends, no family, no where to go. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Bucky looked around. He had no where to go.

___________________________________

 

_The mare had been grazing happily, minding her own business with her stallion friend, when his head jerked up in alarm. He whinnied unhappily and trotted toward the trees, tossing his head as he did, and though the mare had found nothing new in the sound, she followed, nose near the ground. She picked up a stray patch of grass that poked through the snow here and there, and when she and her friend had found their way back to a patch of distinctly human scent, she raised her head._

_Her owner was right where she had left him, with Loki’s on the ground, though the fire had long gone out and the sun was well up into the sky. The scent of human, though familiar to the mare’s nose was...off. She loped forward till she could bump her head against her rider’s boot, something that always got him up when the others in the camp were ready to go, but he wanted to sleep. She looked up to his face. Off to her right, the black horse nickered, though he stayed well away from the camp._

_Huffing a bit, the mare moved, and bumped her nose against the man’s hand that clutched one of his things, human things she’d seen a thousand times. She nickered at him, and bumped his hand again, and still, nothing. This time, her friend squealed, rising up on his hind legs and stamping on the ground. He thought they should leave, that staying was no good, something was wrong. The mare couldn’t leave her rider, he had taken good care of her, and was her friend, always kind to her. She snorted at him, and nothing. Nudged his cheek, and nothing, though her nose came away wet and sticky._

_She reared back, shaking her head about and the stallion squealed at her again as she snuffled in the snow. That didn’t deter her for long; once she had rid her nose of the odd wet substance, she went smelling around her rider’s head again, finding the snow around him rife with the same stuff, dark against the snow, from what she could see._

_The stallion knew it was no good, and trotted over to the mare, tossing his head and squealing, screaming almost, to draw her away from the scent of death._


End file.
